Yes, Anastasia
by taralkariel
Summary: She always knew she would survive if SHIELD fell, but she never thought she would be part of the process. With governments and HYDRA on her tail, she goes into hiding, retracing the path that brought her from the Red Room to the Avengers and on to whatever she will do next. With a little help from her friends, can she pick up the pieces? (Companion to Terrible Lie)
1. I know what you want, the magpies have

**A/N: This is a companion story to Terrible Lie. I'd recommend reading that first, but it can stand on its own. Chapter titles from Yes, Anastasia by Tori Amos. It's post-CATWS, but will mostly be flashbacks.**

**1. I know what you want, the magpies have come, if you know me so well then tell me which hand I use**

She has been haunted for as long as she can remember. She's been haunted by ghosts of memories, of friends, of family, of allies, of enemies, and of those somewhere in between. There are things she knows she will never escape, no matter what name she takes or where she chooses to hide out. Some things that haunt her keep her awake at night, staring into the darkness. And some things help her sleep, reminding her that there are those who care about her. She remembers a time when nothing but satisfaction at a completed mission fell into the latter category, before anything fell into the former except wisps of memory.

She's made a name for herself, several times over. She's killed and infiltrated and stolen secrets for decades, since she was an orphaned child with no choice. Then one day she was given a choice. Sometimes she reconsiders her decision to stay in this line of work; she could have gotten out. She could still get out. But it's all she knows. And no one is better at it than she is. So she stays, loyal to those whom she trusts, who trust her. Her loyalty is not won by patriotism and ideals, but by the people who serve beside her. If that is not enough to satisfy the men in suits who run the world, well, maybe she's better off lying low for a while.

Her legs stretch out in front of her, feet resting on the railing of her balcony. The chair beneath her is wooden and warm, retaining the heat from the sun that set several hours ago. It is comfortable here. The world is quiet here. It's been many years since she was last in this country, and many more since she acquired this safe house. Things have changed drastically, but, here, they are always the same. Or were, she thinks, glancing back into the doorway behind her.

She comes here to think. Of all her safe houses all over the world, this is the one in which she places her greatest faith. Securing it required going through dozens of backwater channels and she is absolutely certain that no one could find her here, even if they knew where to start looking. And people are most definitely searching for her, after what happened today. She may not be a ghost, but she knows how to move like one. It is safe here. For now.

* * *

><p>Her legs moved rhythmically, steadily, as she ran at a speed she wouldn't be able to maintain for long. But she had to get away, get away before she could be found. She was being hunted, she knew, and she knew by whom. He was one of the best, which she supposed should be flattering. Of course, they had sent others after her, others who were not the best, and they were dead now. So maybe they were just erring on the side of caution.<p>

The narrow streets were difficult to maneuver, and the locals stared at her in annoyance and surprise as she whipped passed them. Her cover was blown, and she made no attempt to pass as one of them. It hadn't worked, anyway. How long had it been since she had been secure? Each cover had seemed to last only a matter of weeks before they found her again. Was she getting sloppy? Or were they just that desperate?

She supposed she had ruined one too many of their plans. Not that such a thing had been her intention; she did what she was sent to do. She followed orders. She was not in charge of the missions, only seeing that they were finished. Once, she had wanted to ascend the ranks and be one of those in charge. But that feeling had passed and now, well, she took pride in a successful mission but the failures were wearing her down. Or, more accurately, the nature of what she was sent to do was beginning to weigh on her. Maybe she had just finally realized they were on the losing side, and her superiors refused to change tactics or accept this fact.

Her thoughts are cut off abruptly when she ran headlong into a cart an old man has just shoved into the street. She rolled automatically, ignoring the stinging pain in her wrists and palms and knees before getting to her feet and continuing her run. People shouted at her from behind, but she ignored them too. The wings of panic fluttered in her chest as she heard a projectile whip passed her ear, far too close for comfort. Instinctively, she searched for cover, and ducked into the nearest door she saw.

She was in a small shop. The owners and single patron looked considerably startled by her intrusion. She dove behind the counter and rolled into the wall. Pulling out her gun, she glared at them and put her finger to her lips in warning. Their shock turned to fear, and they held very still, watching her carefully. Her breath came in hard gasps, due in part by the fact that she was no longer moving. Finally, she was able to breathe evenly, and had received no sign of her pursuer. Her hostages were getting restless.

Warily, she got to her feet, and asked in their native language if there was a back door. They pointed, and she moved silently into the backroom, which was clearly a storeroom and office. They seemed concerned, peering after her, but she continued on her path to the door that led her into an unobtrusive alley. Holstering her gun, she pulled her scarf back over her hair and face and walked slowly, calmly, out of the alley and joined the other pedestrians.

As she walked, she considered where she could go. Her cover was blown, so there was no point in returning to her safe house. Even if they weren't waiting for her there, even if _he_ wasn't waiting for her there, it was only a matter of time until they tracked it down. She needed to leave this place, get on some form of public transportation, preferably the kind that didn't check identification very closely, and go to another city. She tried unsuccessfully to shake off the feeling that she would never stop running.

Suddenly, something whistled passed her head and she dropped into a crouch automatically. The people around her screamed and shouted and began running in different directions. She scanned the rooftops and windows, searching for the source. A glint in a window caught her eye and she turned to look. As she did so, something buried itself in her shoulder. The pain was more surprising than anything, but she soon began to panic as a feeling of exhaustion spread across her. In a moment, she was unconscious.

* * *

><p>She listened, giving no sign that she was conscious again. A wooden chair was underneath her, something leather, possibly a belt, held her in place. The room was of indeterminate size, but not particularly large. As far as she can tell, there was one other person in it. A person who was presumably watching her. She considered how best to use what she had at her disposal to take advantage of the situation and get out of here.<p>

"I know you're awake," a male voice said calmly.

After a brief moment of deliberation, she opened her eyes to assess her pursuer. Clint Barton, she knew. Formerly a thief, now an agent of SHIELD. World class archer. His reputation for marksmanship and as an assassin was renowned. Which begged the question of why she was still alive.

"I thought you were supposed to kill me," she said coldly.

He smiled. "If I wanted to, I would have," he answered affably.

"Why didn't you?" she pressed.

Cocking his head at her, he leaned against the wall and appeared very much at ease. "Do you want to die?"

"Do you?"

He laughed. "Not particularly."

She glared at him, looking him up and down. He didn't look like his reputation would suggest. He didn't look like someone who could best her in a fight. But appearances could be deceiving, as she was well aware. "What do you want?" she asked at last.

A smile broadened his features. "I think the real question is what do you want." He paused, waiting for her to respond, but she just continued to glare at him. "You've been getting sloppy, Romanova. You've been leaving a nice trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow. Which was very nice of you, by the way." His smile grew at her continued stony silence. "Ah, you didn't do it on purpose. Oh well, I appreciate it." He stood and walked over to where his quiver lay by the door.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, against her better judgment.

"Finishing my mission," he replied nonchalantly, selecting an arrow and picking up his bow.

"Wait." The word burst from her against her volition. Why was she asking him to wait? Was this not the end she knew she'd signed up for from the beginning? Well, maybe not from an arrow, but from an enemy agent. He paused, looking her over.

"Do you want to die?" he asked again.

"No," she admitted, her voice a whisper.

"Good. Because I think I can offer you an alternative."

She sat back and raised an eyebrow at him. "And what's that?"

"You know who I work for. We could use someone of your talents."

"A criminal like you, you mean?" she sneered.

He didn't react. "Yes."

"Is that your mission?"

Pursing his lips, he shook his head. "I'm supposed to kill you. But we didn't have enough intel to indicate you wanted to defect."

She smiled. "Is that what you think I want?"

"Yes."

Her smile faltered. She frowned and looked intently at the ground, considering his offer. She didn't want to die, alone in this basement, but was she willing to serve the enemy for the rest of her life? The answer shocked her in its clarity. "Fine. Take me in," she said resignedly.


	2. Make them go, make it go, saw her there

**A/N: Please read and review :)**

**2. Make them go, make it go, saw her there in a restaurant, Poppy don't go**

She pulls herself from her thoughts and gets to her feet. Her very bones feel weary, and she should try to get some sleep. Not that she's expecting to get a great deal. She walks slowly back into the kitchen, pulling a water bottle out of the fridge, and heads down the hallway. Her footsteps are always light, but she makes them silent as she slips passed her guest bedroom doorway, glancing in briefly to reassure herself before going to her own room. She moves inside and locks the door with a soft click.

Letting out a sigh of something like relief, she goes to her bathroom and turns the water on in the tub. Steam wafts up from the water as she lowers herself in a few minutes later and she settles back to think. Her gun is on the shelf next to the tub and she has an assortment of other weapons hidden around the room. It's almost enough for her to let her guard down. It is enough to let her relax into the warm water and ease her sore muscles. It was never her intention to have to fight for a living, but it has always seemed to be the case.

Some of her memories aren't real. She knows they implanted some memories, removed others. When she can find in files may be lies as well, so most of her past is a mystery, even to her. She knows she had parents, a family, once. She knows they disappeared from her life when she was very young. She doesn't know who they were or what happened to them. It's been a long time since she's given them much thought. It doesn't matter.

* * *

><p>Her fingers were cold. The snow had already started for the year, and her gloves were patched and ragged. They were getting too small for her anyway, and there was no money for new ones. So her mother continued to darn them, to alter them as well as she could. But it wasn't much use; she was going to be cold. She tucked her hands into her jacket, similarly ill-fitting, but warmer, and made do. She always made do.<p>

As she walked down the cold street, she kicked at rocks and bits of ice that crossed her path. She was waiting for her mother to finish work so they could go home. Her path was short, just up and down the block outside the store where her mother worked. It was boring, but she didn't mind. Soon they would go home, and then things would be good. Her father would be there, waiting for them, and he always made their tiny apartment feel like home.

Sometimes her father went away for long periods of time. She didn't know where, and both her parents looked upset any time she asked. So she'd stopped asking. Her mother had slowly explained to her that his job was very important and talking about it could make him lose it. She didn't understand, but kept her thoughts to herself. She knew they wouldn't act like that if it wasn't necessary; they were always open with her when they could be.

She didn't have many friends. She hadn't started school yet, and the neighborhood children whispered to each other about her and her family. What they said she never heard, but it was enough for them to keep their distance. Not that she never played with others, she just tended to do better on her own. She told herself that she didn't mind, that spending time with her parents was enough, but she knew she was lying.

"Are you ready, Natalia?" her mother's voice called.

She turned abruptly and skipped back to her. "Yes," she sang, pushing aside her melancholy thoughts, now that they could go home.

Her mother extended her hand and she took it, swinging their arms back and forth as they walked. "What do you want to do tonight, little one?" her mother asked, smiling.

She shrugged, pulling a little ahead. "See Papa," she said resolutely.

Laughing, her mother allowed herself to be dragged forward. "Alright, I think we can arrange that," she answered.

It was only a few blocks to their apartment but it felt like it took forever. Natalia's hand was warm now, the one her mother held, but the other was still cold. She curled it in her pocket again, which helped. Stepping lightly around the ice and drifts of snow, she led her mother home. When she glanced back, her mother smiled at her, but she could tell the expression was forced for her benefit. She fought against the worry that began pooling in her belly.

"There's my two girls," her father's voice boomed when they opened the front door of their apartment. She dropped her mother's hand and ran to him. He picked her up and swung her around, then set her down. "Your hands are cold, child," he said, taking both of them in his own.

"She needs new gloves," her mother explained gently.

He frowned, crouching to look at Natalia in the eye. "I'm sure you understand that there are things we can't get for you right now, don't you?" he asked earnestly.

"Yes, Papa," she replied gravely.

A smile broke out on his face. "Good girl. But look what I've found for you."

He held out a box tied with a ribbon. She took care to untie it without damaging it; it was a fine ribbon. Inside the box were two leather gloves, which she pulled over her hands immediately. "They're lovely," she gasped, gazing at them in awe.

"They are lovely," her mother agreed, coming over to look. "Where did you get them?"

Her father's face became closed off for a moment. "They cost us nothing," he said flatly.

"They were a present? Oh, please thank them for it, Papa," she said enthusiastically, aware that her parents were looking at each other very seriously. At her words, both of their expressions lightened and they smiled at her.

"Of course I will, Natalia," he answered, patting her head. "Whenever I see them again," he added in a strange tone.

"Thank you, Papa. Can I go outside now?" she asked, holding her gloved hands up.

"Be back in half an hour for dinner," her mother told her.

Without needing to be told twice, she hurried back down the stairs and out the front door, eager to test out her present. After a few minutes, she found a snow drift that was still pristine, and began to carefully craft snowmen. The gloves were a vast improvement over her old ones, and her fingers did not begin to sting even when a bit of snow got between the material and her skin. She surveyed her creations with a smile and found various objects people had left behind to act as noses and eyes and mouths and clothes.

Delighted by her accomplishment, she ran back upstairs, pausing only to wipe her boots off carefully before reaching the carpets. "Momma, Papa," she called as she approached her door.

Her parents were having some kind of discussion, her father holding her mother's wrist tightly, but he dropped it when she came into view. "What is it, darling?" he asked lightly, while her mother forced a smile.

"Come see!" she cried excitedly.

"We are a little busy," her mother began.

"Nonsense, we always have time for you," her father interrupted, getting to his feet.

Happily, she ran back down the stairs, and waited impatiently at the bottom, rocking back and forth on her toes. Finally, her parents joined her and she showed them the snowmen.

"They're beautiful," her mother said.

"Very nice. Excellent construction. I particularly like the fellow with the elegant hat," her father agreed, pointing toward one with a black bottle cap on its head.

"Thank you," she said graciously, unable to hid her smile.

"Come along, Natalia, let's set the table for dinner," her mother murmured.

Obediently, she followed them inside and took off her boots, coat, and new gloves to wash her hands. Dinner was eaten in relative silence, and she sensed that the discussion from earlier was not resolved in any way. She could see it in the way her parents looked at each other, as though she didn't see them.

Finally, finished with her meal, she had a wash and climbed into her bed. Her father sat down in the chair nearby and told her a fairy story. She closed her eyes and listened to the cadence of his voice as it described her favorite scenes. When it was over, he kissed her forehead and left her room. She tried to go to sleep quickly, but wasn't fast enough to avoid hearing her parents' heated whispers. Somehow, she fell asleep despite these.

Something woke her. She blinked into the darkness, eyes wide, feeling ill at ease. She couldn't see her parents anywhere and began to worry. Carefully, she climbed out of bed and peered into her parents' room. It was empty. On silent feet, she traversed the whole apartment and found no sign of them. Panic began to set in, and she pulled her coat and boots on over her pajamas, then shoved her hands into her new gloves.

The building was silent, despite her fear-heightened senses, and she made her way slowly down the stairs, listening hard for any sign of life. Eventually, she reached the bottom and looked up. And discovered what had woken her. The smell of fire entered her nostrils, some whiff of it must have invaded her sleep, but she saw that the top of the building was aflame and it was not going to stay there for long.

She cried out and ran back to her apartment. It was becoming truly smoky now, and she hurried around in search of her parents, screaming their names. There was no answer. Suddenly, arms wrapped around her, but not arms of anyone she knew, and she was dragged outside. She beat against the person rescuing her, blinded by anger and panic. She was set down and tried to run inside, only to be grabbed again. Helpless, sobs escaped her and she collapsed in the snow, shoulders shaking.


	3. I know your mother is a good one, but

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! If you're here for BuckyNat, it's going to be a bit, but I think worth it :) And if you prefer Clintasha, Clint's going to be around a lot, too.**

**3. I know your mother is a good one, but Poppy don't go, I'll take you home**

Eventually, her sobs became less intense and she looked around herself. The person who pulled her from the burning building was standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She looked toward the place she had once called home and stifled a cry when she saw that it was nearly gone, burned to the ground. She looked up at the man, eyes wide.

He smiled down at her. "It will be alright, little one," he said soothingly.

"Who are you?" she demanded, taking a step back.

"My name is Ivan. I was a friend of your parents'. They sent me to find you and make sure you were safe," he murmured gently, crouching to look her in the eye.

"Where are they?"

His comforting smile faltered, for just a moment. "They had to go away from here."

"Why didn't they take me?"

"Oh, Natalia, they couldn't. It's difficult to explain," he answered, standing and glancing up and down the street. A crowd had gathered, unsurprisingly, and people were attempting to stop the flames. She didn't follow his gaze, just continued to stare at him.

"I've met you before," she said suddenly.

He smiled again. "Yes, my dear, you have. It was a long time ago, I am surprised you remember."

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I have a good memory for faces," she asserted.

"That's wonderful. It's a very special talent," he said, with a thoughtful look. A shiver ran through her, and he looked her up and down as if noticing for the first time that she was in her nightclothes. "Let's get you out of the cold, hmm?" he suggested, putting his hand on her shoulder again and gently pushing her forward.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he guided her through the crowd and down the soon-empty sidewalk.

"To my home," he replied affably. "Then my wife can find you something to warm you up. Maybe some hot cocoa?"

She smiled hesitantly, lip trembling after so much crying. "That would be good," she offered, aware suddenly of his generosity. Clearing her throat, she glanced around them. "Am I going to live with you now?"

His lips pursed briefly. "I'm not sure yet, little one. For tonight, at least, you can stay."

"Thank you," she said gravely.

He smiled at her. "I owe your parents that much," he explained. "It's a terrible thing, you know, to be in someone else's debt. No one wants red in their ledger."

"What did they do for you?" she asked, surprised.

Patting her head, he turned them down an alley that cut across a few blocks. "Nothing I would sully the ears of such a sweet child with. Maybe when you're older. Suffice it to say that your parents were always very generous."

"Were?" she demanded, coming to a stop and staring up at him with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry, child, I didn't mean to imply anything. I just don't think they will be back in Russia again," he said gently, painfully.

Her brow furrowed and she bit back tears. "Where did they go? Why can't I go to them? What happened? Why did they leave? Why –" the questions burst from her in a flurry.

He pulled her into an embrace, pressing her against his great coat and shushed her quietly. "It'll be alright, girl. You'll be alright. We just have to get through today. Tomorrow will take care of itself," he told her.

At length, she calmed enough for them to continue walking. She did not speak again, despite arriving at his house and being stunned by its size. His coat was finer than many she had seen, as were his boots, but she had not expected such an ostentatious display of his wealth. He was clearly richer than anyone she had met, many times richer than her own parents. It was difficult to keep her jaw from dropping as he brought her inside and a maid took their coats and boots.

She followed him through his enormous house, eventually finding their way to a kitchen. A woman made her hot cocoa; she was relatively certain it wasn't his wife, but she was given only a name and nothing else to go on. While she drank, Ivan left her alone and went somewhere else. She watched him go tentatively, wondering if she should follow, but the woman insisted she sit and enjoy her drink.

By the time she had finished, Ivan returned and led her to a bedroom. "This will be yours, for tonight," he told her. "Sleep well, little one. You're safe here."

"Thank you, Ivan," she said sincerely. He smiled, patted her head, and left.

* * *

><p>She stayed with Ivan and his family for more than a night. There were dozens of servants of whom she did her best to keep track, as well as his wife, whom she met the next morning. It was a few months before Ivan came to her in the parlor room, where she was practicing the piano. She stopped when he approached, but he motioned for her to continue.<p>

"It's about time you should go to school," he said when she'd finished.

"Yes, sir," she replied, glancing over at him.

He smiled. "I think I've found one just right for someone like you."

"Someone like me?" she asked, smiling happily.

"You're a very special girl. Would you like to join other special girls and show us all what you really can do?" he offered.

"Yes!" she cried, jumping to her feet exuberantly.

"It will be very difficult, Natalia," he warned.

"Oh, Ivan, I can do it! I love challenges," she told him persuasively.

He leaned forward on his knees to look at her intently. "Once you go, you won't be able to leave just because you don't like it."

She met his eye and looked at him soberly. "I will work very hard, Ivan."

A small smile appeared on his lips. "I know you will, little one. But I worry about you, you know. I wish I could keep you here in my house," he added wistfully, sitting back.

Her brow furrowed. "Why can't you, Ivan?" she asked. It was a question that had bothered her for some time, but she took care not to let the importance of it become obvious in her tone. People were often taken aback by intense questioning, and refused to answer.

He sighed heavily. "It would not be allowed. We have places for orphans to go, and I'm sad to say that you now fall into that category. If I took you in, well, it would be expected for me to take in others. And my poor wife wouldn't be able to handle that, what with her health," he explained.

She bit her lip. "I could be a servant," she suggested.

"Always clever," he said with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, my dear Natalia, but it can't be done."

"Is it," she began, then paused to clear her throat. "Is it because of what happened to my parents?" she whispered.

He pulled her into a quick hug. "Clever girl," he murmured. "Yes, it's because of them. I have taken great risks bringing you here, and it took a great deal to find a place for you. For you to stay here would put us all in terrible danger."

Her blood ran cold. The fire was… because of her? Because of her parents? She pulled away to stare at him, but could see no lie on his face. He was telling the truth. "I'm sorry," she cried, and buried her face in his jacket.

Patting her back gently, he got to his feet, stepping away. "It's not your fault, Natalia. Now, come along, let's get you packed."

She obediently followed him to the room she was beginning to think of as her own. He found her a suitcase that he promised would not be missed and helped her select some of the things she had acquired while living there and pack them away. When they had finished, he sat on her bed and watched her carefully straightening the room.

"You're a good girl, Natalia. You're clever and perceptive and strong. I think you will do well, but you will have to pay close attention to your instructors and do whatever they ask," he told her seriously.

"I will, Ivan," she promised, tone grave.

He smiled faintly. "You will leave in the morning. So let's see what we can find in the kitchen to make your last night here memorable," he said conspiratorially. She grinned and followed him downstairs.


	4. Show me the things I've been missing

**A/N: Just a reminder that Natasha may not be the most reliable narrator ;) Interpret flashbacks how you will (regardless of what Nat may say afterward). Thanks for reviewing!**

**4. Show me the things I've been missing, show me the ways I forgot to be speaking**

She wonders, even now, if Ivan knew where he was sending her. Of course, she thinks, it is entirely possible that Ivan never existed and that whole situation was an implanted memory. If so, it was nice of them to give her something so pleasant. By now, she is usually able to determine what was real and what was implanted, though she knows there are large gaps that she may never fill. In any case, she believes Ivan was real and rescued her from a fire in the apartment building where her parents lived.

Since she was so young, she doesn't know if things were as severe as she remembers, or if she embellished the importance of events. It's been a long time since she has tried to sort through her childhood thoughts and figure out exactly what happened. At a certain point, she wonders if it really matters. The fact is that she lived somewhere else until she was five or six, and then lived in the Red Room for over a decade. She was trained as a spy from the beginning, and refined into an excellent assassin very early on.

* * *

><p>The place she was taken was far from the city limits. It was a compound, with many different outbuildings as well as one large, imposing structure. From the moment she saw it, she didn't like it. But perhaps that was just the fear of the child at going to a new place, into the unknown. It was eerily empty outside, and the wind blew through it in a way that she had not experienced in the city. Ivan parked the car and fetched her suitcase while she climbed out.<p>

He smiled down at her, taking her hand. "I know how it looks, but you want to serve our country, don't you?"

He had brought this idea up frequently during her stay. She had, of course, always agreed. "Yes, Ivan. Always."

"Good," he replied, sounding relieved. "You will be given the opportunity to do great things. Things most of us could never achieve. Your parents will be proud when they hear of your decision, especially at such a young age," he told her, looking toward the building as they walked. She watched him, a nagging doubt entering her mind that he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

"Will you come see me?" she asked.

He looked down again, startled. "I don't know, Natalia. This may be goodbye, at least until your training is done."

"How long will that take?"

Biting his lip, he looked away. "A few years, at least. You will be quite the young woman before we meet again, I'm sure."

She squeezed his hand. "What if… What if I can't do it?" she whispered, pulling at him to slow down.

He turned back to her and embraced her briefly. "You'll be fine, Natalia. You always are," he assured her, and led her up the stairs to the front door.

After he rang the bell, she took a deep, shuddering breath. He smiled at her, and then door opened and he changed abruptly. She'd seen it before, the way he acted in official encounters. So unlike the friendliness he showed at home, both toward her, his wife, and the servants. Still, she had hoped to have him be himself a little longer, and felt fear creeping up again.

A young-looking woman with pretty features but a stern expression had opened the door. She looked both of them up and down appraisingly, then adopted a cold smile. "Come in, you're expected," she told them.

Ivan had dropped her hand, and she followed him silently, holding her suitcase close to her chest as they walked across a huge tiled entryway. Their shoes clicked smartly as she led them to a pair of large oak doors on the right side. Ahead of them was a set of stairs leading to a grand hallway perpendicular to them, and nothing appeared to be on the left side of the room except the same wood paneling that covers the walls. She opened both doors and stepped aside, letting them enter and closing the doors behind them.

The carpet in the room was plush, a contrast to the tile outside. They were in a sitting room of some sort, with several antique chairs lining the dark wooden walls. Ivan glanced at her, expression grave, and then sat down in one of the chairs. She pulled herself up into the seat next to him. They waited, her legs swinging back and forth impatiently, toes just skimming the ground. She didn't know how long they were kept there, despite being expected, but finally the inner door opens and a shockingly beautiful woman appeared in the doorway.

Natalia had seen many women in the city, but none looked like her. Her dark hair was pulled up in a tightly coiled mass on the back of her head, revealing her swan-like neck and porcelain skin. Her eyes were green, an uncommon color, and looked warm and inviting as she regarded her guests. When she smiled at them, Natalia couldn't help but feel a pull toward the woman, and an ache to have her approval.

"Good morning, Ivan, Natalia," she said, her voice as lovely as the rest of her.

"Good morning," Ivan said haltingly, getting to his feet and offering his hand. She took it and then shook Natalia's as well, smiling broadly. "We spoke on the phone," he added.

She straightened, looking at him again. "We did. You're much handsomer in person, my dear," she told him. "And little Natalia is a lovely girl. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

They smiled back at her. "I'm sure you'll take good care of her," Ivan said, sounding, for the first time, confident about what was going to happen to Natalia. He paused, as if remembering something, and glanced down at her. "She was wondering if perhaps I might visit," he began slowly.

The woman's smile faded ever so slightly for a moment before returning. "Oh, my dear, I am afraid that is impossible. She will be training, and I'd hate for her to be distracted. It's a very intensive process, you see," she said, everything about her disarming.

He nodded, as though this was expected. "Then I must say goodbye, little Natalia," he said gravely, bending to look her in the eye.

"Goodbye, Ivan," she answered sorrowfully.

"You will be in good hands here. I look forward to hearing what you will do with your gifts," he said, forcing a smile.

"I will do my best." Her voice was resolute, chin held high, and she was aware of both adults smiling down at her determination.

"I know you will," Ivan said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, then getting to his feet. "Please, keep me informed," he added seriously to the woman.

Her smile grew. "Of course," she promised.

With one last look, Ivan took his leave of them, and Natalia looked up at the woman expectantly. The smile faded away as if it had never been, and she thought that perhaps she wasn't so beautiful after all. "Madam," she began nervously, uncertainly.

"Come along, child. Let's get you settled," the woman said with some of the former warmth, but she felt knots forming in her stomach.

The woman walked quickly, much faster than the first girl, and she struggled to keep up. They navigated a maze of corridors, going back to the main foyer first and then down increasingly narrow and less lavish hallways. Finally, they reached a room containing two rows of fourteen beds, each carefully made. All had a few individualized belongings next to them, except for one.

"This will be where you stay, Natalia. There are twenty-seven other girls, currently at their lessons. It is too late for you to join them today, but you will start with them tomorrow. Follow their lead and you will be fine," the woman explained, with an almost military-like precision.

"Madam," she began, eyes wide.

"Don't fret, child. It will be difficult at first, but, from what I've seen, I am sure you will adapt quickly. You will see me for lessons, though perhaps not for a few years. We will see how you progress. But here is your first lesson here: do not allow your opponent to see any weakness."

Blinking, she took a wary step back. "Who are my opponents?"

The woman smiled, her beauty returning but none of its warmth. "Everyone."

The word sank into her consciousness and she considered running out after Ivan. But she knew she wouldn't want to do that. Even then, at such a young age, she wanted a challenge. She wanted to live up to what Ivan had been warning her about, what this woman seemed to think she could do. She wouldn't run. She had lost her parents, her home, and she wasn't going to lose anything else.


	5. Show me the ways to get back to the

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing!**

**7. Show me the ways to get back to the Garden, show me the ways to get around the get-around**

The first day was difficult. Perhaps not more so than she had begun to suspect, however. The other girls were not friendly, but they helped her through the first day nonetheless. She got lost frequently in the huge compound and one was always around to point her in the right direction. In age, she was definitely the youngest. The oldest was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, close to ten years her senior. She tried not to think about how unfeeling the older ones looked, how focused on something she couldn't see or understand.

Before dawn, the girls got up from their beds, making them and then dressing carefully. All of them wore the same long-sleeved leotard, though of varying colors. She was soon made aware that the colors were worn by particular training groups; all of those in her group were young and wore white. The oldest girls wore black, while the ones in the middle wore shades of grey or blue. After they were dressed, they pulled back their hair, mostly in buns. Natalia had never done such a thing before, and her hair was hardly long enough anyway, but one of the older girls did what she could to get the hair out of her face, at any rate.

Breakfast followed. It was a long walk down to the kitchens, and the girls spoke little. A few had formed friendships and talked quietly together, but most were silent. They all sat at the same long table. There were other groups of people there, most of them adults, but they did not speak to the girls and kept out of the way for the most part. Breakfast itself consisted of eggs and fruits and was light. This caused her to worry somewhat, but she found that the girls were fed regularly, every few hours, with protein-rich snacks. It wasn't until the end of the day that they sat down to a big meal, though by then she was too tired to enjoy it much.

After breakfast, the girls split off into groups. She was momentarily confused, but one of the other girls in white plucked at her sleeve and gave her a tentative smile. She immediately smiled back, relieved, and the girl's smile spread. "The beginners go this way," the girl explained, motioning down the hallway where the others in white were heading.

"Thank you," Natalia said fervently.

"My name is Yelena," she said as she led them after the others.

"Natalia," she replied, assessing her new friend. She was perhaps two years older than herself, with long black hair carefully piled on her head, reminding her of the woman from the day before. Her eyes were brown and warm.

"The first day is scary," Yelena agreed to her unspoken feelings as they walked.

"How long have you been here?"

Her look became faraway. "I don't know. Less than a year, I think." She looked troubled.

Natalia eyed her carefully, wondering at her confusion. "What do you learn here?"

The girls around her all turned to look at her, stone-faced. Yelena glanced at them and back at her. "No one's told you?" She shook her head, eyes wide. "We dance," Yelena said, an odd hardness in her voice to accompany such an innocuous statement.

"We should hurry," one of the others said, and the girls hastened down the corridor, Natalia trailing the group.

At her left, there were glass doors and windows, with white curtains on the inside. Some of these were open enough for her to see some of the older girls, stretching gracefully. Other rooms were empty, as far as she could tell from the hurried glances. As one, they stopped at the fourth door. It was opened before them and they filed in silently. It takes a few moments before she was inside, and saw that it was much the same as the rooms she'd passed.

The floor was wooden, and of a lighter color than it had been at the entranceway of the facility. On the far wall, there was a bar a little over two feet from the ground, running the length of the room and in front of mirrors. The girls in front of her had all walked over to the wall of mirrors, and she followed them. Watching carefully, she mimicked as they stretched, using the bar to help.

An older girl stood at what she supposed was the front of the room, dressed in white. She wasn't sure if she had seen her in the dormitory or not. The girl waited patiently for a few minutes then directed them. Somewhat to Natalia's distress, the orders were largely in French. At least, at the beginning. Later, she realized that it was the names of the moves themselves that were French, and it was largely the taciturn nature of her first instructor that made it seem as though everything was in a foreign tongue.

She was slow, at the beginning. It was hard to follow, and she didn't know the moves. They worked for hours, with her eventually just a step or two behind the others. She watched and picked it up quickly, intent on showing her ability to master what was being asked of her. Finally, they took a break and food was brought on a cart in the hallway. The other girls hurried to it and ate quickly. She followed and did the same, looking appraisingly at each of them.

"Natalia," a voice behind her caused her to turn around quickly.

"Yes, ma'am?" she asked, wondering if she should curtsey for their instructor, who was watching her carefully.

"Have you danced before?"

"No, ma'am," she replied, a hint of her nervousness evident in her voice.

The girl pursed her lips. "Wait here, then," she said, and turned away sharply.

Natalia looked at the others, feeling her cheeks grow pink as they stared at her. After a moment, they continued eating and she looked intently down at her own food, her hunger forgotten. She wanted to look for Yelena, to see if perhaps she could explain what was happening, but was afraid of what she would see in the other girl's face.

After what seemed an eternity, their instructor returned. With her was the beautiful woman from before, wearing a quizzical expression. "Return, ladies," the girl said.

Obediently, they returned to their places. The beautiful woman stood at the back of the room and watched, making no sign. They soon forgot she was there and focused on their lessons. Natalia glanced back at her occasionally, but forced herself to keep up with the others, and did not often have time to look around. Several more hours went by, and she was exhausted. She didn't know if she had ever been so tired in her life.

"Enough," the woman's voice in the back of the room rang out.

The girls immediately dropped to the floor, legs folded out before them, and she quickly copied the pose. At a sign from the woman, the girl made a motion and the girls all rose gracefully to their feet and began filing out the door. She followed them.

"Not you, little one," the woman said calmly.

She stopped, and held still as everyone else left the room. It was difficult, but she managed to suppress her trembling, despite her sore and exhausted muscles.

"Tell me, Natalia, where did you learn to dance like that?" Moving from her spot, the woman walked slowly around to stand in front of her.

"I haven't had any training, madam," she answered quietly.

The woman pursed her lips. "You show incredible aptitude. It appears I may be instructing you much sooner than we expected. You will continue your lessons with the other girls for the rest of the week, but I shall be monitoring your progress."

"Yes, madam," she said faintly, staring at her in surprise.

The woman nodded, and swept out of the room. Slowly, she let go of the breath she had been holding and watched her go, wondering what sort of place this really was. And whether or not it was good to have been thus singled out. Before she could pursue her thoughts any further, the other girls returned and they continued to practice.

A few more breaks were granted, and then, finally, they were done for the day. She was dead tired at dinner and hardly ate. The other girls were more talkative, but did not address her during the meal. She considered the other kinds of people in the dining hall with them, but was too exhausted to pay much attention to them. Finally, the girls got up from the table as one and move back upstairs to their dormitory. She wasn't sure she could find it on her own, or she would not have waited.

She had never been so happy to go to bed, crawling between the clean sheets and sighing deeply. Despite her concerns over her new station, she was almost asleep moments later when she heard a soft sound. Her eyes fluttered open sleepily, and she saw that Yelena was in the bed beside her, looking at her. She jolted, and Yelena smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. What did Madama Pauk want?"

"Pauk?" she mumbled confusedly. "The spider?"

Yelena's expression was serious. "That's what she is called here. I don't know what her real name is. What did she say?"

Natalia cleared her throat, forcing herself to wake up. "She wanted to know where I learned to dance, and said I might be trained by her soon."

By the expression of surprise on Yelena's face, Natalia is relatively certain it isn't good news. "I have never heard of that happening," she whispered vehemently. "Be careful, Natalia."

"I will," she answered, wondering what that meant.

"Go to sleep!" one of the older girls called in annoyance.

With a small smile, Yelena lay back down and looked at Natalia reassuringly. "Don't worry, you were very good today. You'll be going in circles around the rest of us in no time," the girl murmured gently.

"Thank you," Natalia replied hesitantly. Somehow, she didn't feel like sleeping anymore.


	6. Show me the ways to button up buttons

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing!**

**6. Show me the ways to button-up buttons that have forgotten they're buttons: Well ,we can't have that forgetting that**

She doesn't know how long she trained in the Red Room, as it was called. She doesn't know when she found out it was more than just a weird sort of dance studio, but she doesn't think she was surprised to learn it. Perhaps because she'd been surrounded by secrets her whole life, but becoming a secret herself hadn't seemed like much of a step. It took years, she knew, before she was allowed to leave the facility for the first time. She is relatively sure she was in her late teens by then.

Though she was the youngest of the Widows, she was one of the first ones to be sent out on a mission. Of course, their numbers had significantly decreased by that time; there were only nine left of the original twenty-eight. Only nine who passed the program. Now, she doesn't know what happened to the others, or even why most of them disappeared. Just one morning, the bed was carefully made but the personal belongings were gone. It didn't happen often, she believes, less than once a month. It made it all the more disturbing, and she knows it was to keep them in line, keep them from questioning their orders. Unknown consequences are much more effective than had they been told what happened.

In the years since she left Russia, she has looked for files on the program, to see why the others were chosen or failed. What happened to those who did not finish? Had they been killed? Assigned to another program? She doesn't know; the data she can find is inconclusive. Much of it has been heavily redacted if transferred to a digital copy, but the majority was kept on paper. They didn't want the information found. She has since given up trying, and tries to convince herself that her past doesn't matter.

It does, of course. It always will. She has a lot to make up for, though she isn't sure how she will do it now. SHIELD may be reforming, but she can't go on missions without covers, and it cannot provide those for her. Not yet, anyway. So she'll lay low, but help if she can.

A shiver runs through her and she sighs; the water's gone cold. Unsteadily, she gets to her feet and pulls the plug, drying herself off briskly as she watches the water circle down the drain. Once she is attired in loose sweatpants and a tank top, she leaves her bathroom and does a perimeter check of her bedroom. Frowning slightly, she laments the low-tech nature of this safe house and goes to do the same of the whole place. It takes a few minutes and she has goose bumps from the chilly night air before she has returned to her room. It's very late, she thinks, finally sinking into her bed. She hopes her thoughts will still enough for her to sleep, but isn't optimistic. There is a lot on her mind tonight.

When she came to the Red Room, she was an inquisitive little girl. Cleverer, perhaps, than her peers, and more aware of government secrets than others, but not particularly gifted in espionage. As far as she knows. What they did to her, to all the girls, in the Red Room was mold perfect spies. It started with the dancing. She progressed to the next level of girls after less than a month, while many in the white group had been there for years. Most of those girls did not complete the program. Yelena did. Yelena was slower, less graceful, but more determined to succeed than most. Not as determined as Natalia, though.

Many of her memories are gone of the trainings. She doesn't know if that's the result of her own repressions or something else. But the next thing she remembers clearly after that first, frightening day, was her first mission outside.

* * *

><p>"Natalia, come along," Madame Pauk told her at breakfast. She obediently put down her fork and followed her mistress. They walked to that office Natalia remembered but had not entered again in all the long years she had been in the facility. She was too tall to swing her legs from the chair if she were invited to sit; she was almost as tall as Madame Pauk. Her hair was long, shimmering red down to her waist, but rarely escaped the bun all of the girls wore during the day. She was thinner than the headmistress, but in all the right places.<p>

Madame Pauk sank into the chair behind the desk, ever graceful, and smiled coolly. "You've quite grown up, little Natalia. I hear impressed reports from your instructors almost daily," she said.

Natalia felt warmth pool in her stomach at the compliment, but took care not to show her pleasure on her face. "Thank you, madam," she answered, her hands clasped behind her back as she stood at attention.

"Your marksmanship is one of our best, and you've become quite lovely. Perfect to be given your first opportunity to serve your country, don't you think?"

Keeping her excitement off her face would have been difficult even a few years before, but she hid it easily now. She hid everything easily. "I would be honored, madam."

The woman's smile broadened, taking on a quality that wasn't entirely reassuring. "Excellent. Since it is your first time, you will not go unaccompanied. I will join you and you will pass as my daughter in front of the intelligentsia. There is a man, a scientist, who is in contact with the English, who believes that sharing our hard-earned knowledge with our enemies will somehow make us allies. What do you think about that?"

Natalia considered briefly; a good Widow was more than a pretty face and martial arts skills. "I think that is a naïve impression of those who would take advantage of whatever they can to create weapons more powerful than our own. And the man is clearly a traitor, whatever his intentions. Those loyal to the motherland would know to protect her resources."

The pleased smile on Madame Pauk's face showed that her answer was a good one. "We leave at dawn. Wear clothes for traveling, and use the scented soap when you wash."

"Yes, madam," she replied, and left the office, dismissed.

The other girls were curious about what she was doing, but she kept the information to herself. They would find out when they went on their own missions. The next morning, she dressed carefully and arranged her hair about her shoulders. Then she went to the main entrance, somewhere she couldn't remember having been again since she'd arrived. Of course, she spent most of her free time training, getting things just right, rather than exploring. It wasn't as though this area was strictly off-limits (however, such places did exist here).

"You look lovely," Madame Pauk said, descending the stairs and smiling aloofly at her. She was dressed exquisitely, her gown shimmering and jewels glittering. "You will change when we arrive, Natalia," she explained.

She nodded and watched silently as the large wooden doors beside them were opened by their driver. She had never seen him before, and took a moment to study him before following her mistress out into the vehicle. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with dark brown eyes, light brown hair. His build indicated that he had some training but likely not enough to be a threat. He seemed nervous.

The car shuddered on and they took off. She went over her trainings and mentally prepared herself for what she might be asked to do on the mission. Madame Pauk spoke little, reading several files she had brought with her with a slight frown marring her features. Finally, they reached the city. Natalia fought a surprisingly strong reaction to seeing a place she hadn't in so many years, a place she had grown up. Nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her, but she clamped it down firmly. It had no place in her life anymore.

They were brought to a hotel. The driver offered his hand to help her down, which she took, and hid her smile as he stared after her. Madame Pauk spoke to the clerk, all the charm she had when she had spoken to Ivan returning, and Natalia found it difficult not to gravitate toward her, despite having received many lessons to be able to do the same thing. No one could do it quite as well as their headmistress, though, and she could only hope to someday be as adept.

Once in their room, the older woman helped her change into an equally stunning dress and arranged her hair becomingly. When she looked into the mirror, she was shocked at the transformation. On the rare occasion she had seen herself over the last few years, she had seen only an intense and carefully trained assassin. Now… She saw a lovely young woman who could easily be mistaken for a debutante. She smiled at herself, making her smile shy and excited, and the effect was absolute. Madame Pauk grinned at her, the only time she had ever seen that expression on her mistress's face. She was ready.

The mark was at a social gathering, to which they had an invitation. They had adopted false identities, and she practiced the necessary information about her cover in her head as they drove over to the grand house in which the party was being hosted. Her face was kept carefully earnest and nervous as they circled through the crowd, Madame Pauk conducting introductions and trading gossip briefly with each group.

"That's him, there, in the threadbare red coat," the woman hissed to Natalia under her breath as they walked between sets of people.

Natalia surveyed the room at large with wide eyes, careful not to make her scrutiny of the mark obvious. She glanced at her mistress briefly, who gave her a barely-noticeable nod. Then she forced a grin on her face and wandered across the room, vaguely in the direction of the man. Her deft fingers snatched a glass of champagne from a server's tray on her way, and she made a show her enjoyment as she drank it. Finally, she was within arm's reach of the mark, but she kept walking, pausing at the last moment to trip and spill her drink on him.

"Oh no!" she cried in anguish. "I am so sorry!"

He smiled gently at her. "Don't worry about it, my dear. You are much too lovely to have your evening spoiled by someone like me," he assured her, dabbing at the spill with a napkin.

She shook her head vehemently. "You must help me clean you up," she insisted, linking her arm with his and pulling him toward the kitchen.

A slightly startled look passed over his face, but he allowed himself to be led. "What's your name, pretty one?" he asked.

"Katarina," she answered, smiling at him shyly.

"Is this your first time at one of these events?"

"Yes, sir. I hope I don't make a fool of myself any further!"

He laughed. "I am sure no one would mind," he said reassuringly.

She smiled disarmingly at the kitchen staff as she pulled him over one of the large sinks. "I hope you are right," she answered, wetting a towel and pressing it to his shirt. After a moment of smiling tentatively at him while she scrubbed the stain, she took a step back. "I'm afraid I must go find my mother. I hope you will accept my apologies," she said gravely.

He laughed. "Of course, my dear. Go find your mother. And perhaps I will see you later?"

"Perhaps," she replied, and left the kitchen.

Madame Pauk was not far moved from where she had been before. Adopting a concerned expression, Natalia weaved her way through the other guests, many of whom smiled at her and asked if she needed help. She shook her head politely and kept going. "Oh, Mama, I am such a mess!" she cried when she'd reached her mistress.

"What is it, child?" The people with whom she was speaking looked on her with small smiles and paused their conversation.

"I spilled my drink all over the nice man over there. I am sure he will hate me forever," she said passionately.

The assembled people laughed, and hurried to reassure her. "It is alright, I'm sure, Katarina, but we can go home if you think that's best."

"I do," she answered, signaling the mission was done. He hadn't even noticed the syringe hidden in the towel. He wouldn't think of it when it finished its work, a few hours from now.

Madame Pauk put her arm around her gently. "I'm afraid we must take our leave. It was lovely to see you again," she said convincingly. "Until next time," she called back as she guided Natalia out the door. They returned to the hotel without exchanging another word; they would return to the compound in the morning. "You did very well," Madame Pauk told her quietly as they settled down to sleep, and she smiled into her pillow, pleased.


	7. Girls, Girls, what have we done

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! In this chapter, Clint! :)**

**7. Girls, girls, what have we done to ourselves, driving on the vine over clothes lines, but Officer I saw the sign**

How old had she been on that first mission? She doesn't remember. She knows she was old enough for boys – and men – to start taking notice. But keeping track of the years wasn't really something encouraged in the Red Room. There was only the next lesson, the next assignment, mastering the skills they would need to survive when they left. The length of time it took was irrelevant; at least, so long as you weren't one of the last ones. Competition was a large part of life there, she remembers, and she knows that Yelena was her only friend, and a tentative one at that.

The missions she did for the KGB and for whomever would pay her afterward are a blur; she has read the files and committed those to memory, but she knows a lot was left out. A lot was redacted. Much of her life is a mystery, even to her. She tells herself it doesn't matter, but, here, lying in the dark, listening for any sound next door, she can't really believe it. How would her life be different if she had her memories? She chides herself, turning over on the mattress and sighing, settling in comfortably. It wouldn't, she decides. As she has many times before. She would still have made the choices she made because that's who she is now. Who she was is no longer important.

A soft buzz brings her attention back to the present, and she sees the light of her phone on the nightstand. Frowning at it, she picks it up and reads the message. Clint, checking on her. She responds that she's fine, which she is, then turns her phone on silent and flips it over so the light won't bother her when he answers. Sometimes Steve sends her similar messages. No one else has her current number, and she cycles through phones frequently. She should do so again soon, she thinks, laying on her back and staring at the ceiling. How long has she had this one? Over a week. Long enough.

She doesn't want to think of the Red Room anymore. Not tonight, certainly, but not ever would be preferable. It made her into something else, and she doesn't like to dwell on the past. She's a skilled spy and assassin now, yes, but she's more than that. She knows who she is, now, and can make her own choices. It was difficult, she knows, to adjust to life in the real world when she defected. If Clint hadn't checked in on her then, too, she isn't sure she would have survived.

* * *

><p>"Since you're going to be staying with us for a while, we thought you might like to anglicize your name," Agent Coulson was telling her as they rode the elevator up to Director Fury's office.<p>

"To what?" she asked tersely, not looking at him.

He was unfazed. As usual. "Natasha Romanoff," he offered, his hands clasped in front of him calmly.

She turned to glare at him. "What's wrong with Natalia?"

"Nothing. Your American accent is excellent. Where did you learn it?" he asked politely.

Her eyes closed briefly. "I don't know," she replied.

He smiled gently. "Forget I asked. It will be a pleasure working with you, Miss Romanoff," he added as a farewell when the elevator doors opened.

She glanced at him and then into the room beyond, stepping out hesitantly. He didn't join her, and she strode resolutely toward the office. The floor was silent, and the wrap of her knuckles on the door seemed overly loud.

"Come in," the Director's voice called out.

Without hesitation, she opened the door and entered, going over to stand in front of his desk. "You called me, sir."

He sat forward on his chair, removing his feet from his desk and setting them on the floor. "I think you've spent enough time with our personnel. Are you ready to prove your loyalty on a mission, Agent Romanoff?" he asked.

She'd never been called agent before. It stirred something in her gut, but she forced herself to focus. A mission would mean finally getting to leave this damn building. "Yes, sir," she replied, showing none of the excitement she felt. Though she had a feeling he could see it anyway.

"Good. Report to briefing room 103 at 0800 tomorrow. That will be all, agent," he said, leaning back again. She turned to go. "Oh, and Natasha?"

"Yes, sir?" she asked, considering the name.

"I'm sticking my neck out for you here. Don't disappoint me. Do exactly what you're ordered to do." She nodded decisively, and a small smile tugged on his lips. "Don't let Barton take you on any wild goose chases."

She hid a smile and was dismissed by a wave of the Director's hand. Once she was safely on the elevator again, she grinned. It would be good to see the man again; she hadn't since he'd brought her in. And she was excited to be going on her first mission with someone so skilled. They could have started her at the bottom, which would be a waste of her talents.

* * *

><p>The next morning, she was waiting in the briefing room as instructed. There were dormitories in the building, though most agents who worked there had homes in the city. The rooms were mainly for field agents, coming in and out. She had been staying in one for a few months while SHIELD undid whatever they could from the Red Room that wouldn't ruin her usefulness. She couldn't remember, even then, what all they had done. All she remembered were white rooms and cold instruments against her skin, with bright lights in her face, both in the SHIELD facility and in the Red Room.<p>

Barton stumbled into the room, looking tired but dressed for a mission. She smiled at the quiver on his back, wondering how he managed to do what he did with such an ancient weapon. He smiled at her, more genuinely.

"They tell me you're Natasha now," he said, dropping gracelessly into the chair beside her.

"They told me that, too," she answered.

He smirked at her. "They're going to let you have a gun on this mission. But, I swear, if you shoot me, I will end you."

"You can try," she replied affably.

Laughing, he shook his head. "I knew I didn't kill you for a reason. Usually I'm the only one making jokes around here. It's way too big a responsibility for me."

"You aren't responsible?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Not usually. Not unless I'm getting paid," he amended.

The door behind them opened and Agent Coulson came in. He smiled at both of them before starting the briefing. It was just going to be the two of them, and they needed to maintain their covers for as long as possible. The goal was to bring the mark in, not kill him. He would be a valuable asset. Natasha, as she now referred to herself, listened carefully, vaguely aware of Barton's seeming disinterest. When Coulson had finished, he led them to a weapons cache. She was surprised to be permitted to arm herself before even leaving the facility, but didn't comment upon it. She picked two pistols and strapped them to her legs. (When had she learned to shoot? Why was that the most comfortable weapon? She doesn't know).

Barton already had his weapon of choice, but he picked up a few things as well, just in case. Thus armed, they were ushered out of the facility and into a waiting helicopter. She sat in silence as they flew, going over the mission objectives. Clint didn't fly them on that first mission, though many later ones were just the two of them. Both could pilot most vehicles, but he liked to fly them out. He didn't like to fly them in, perhaps because he was usually injured in some way by then, so she took over pilot duties to go back to base. It is strange to think about having someone else on their mission that first time. She barely remembers the pilot.

They landed and went to a safe house a few miles away, careful not to alert anyone to their presence. If anyone asked, they were a couple of tourists backpacking across the country. No one asked, but she could see most people make this assumption when they glanced over at them. She dropped her aloof façade and flirted with him lightly. If he realized she was not being genuine, he did a good job not showing it. It helped their cover.

Barton checked them into a hotel and they waited until nightfall. As soon as they got to their room, he dropped off to sleep. He could sleep anywhere, at any time. It was fortunate that he was easy to wake, or he probably would have been killed several times over by then. She didn't sleep, just watched television blankly until she woke him and they left the hotel.

The mark was staying in the same hotel, on a different floor. Whatever the plan was initially, it was immediately scrapped when they heard gunshots. Both ran down the stairs toward the sound, drawing their weapons. They communicated silently, and she wonders now at how well they were able to do so. There were plenty of missions where communications broke down between her and her team and they had to abort. But never with Clint.

When they stood outside the door of the room where the man was staying, they pressed themselves against the wall and he kicked the door in while she jumped forward to cover him. The room was nice and orderly before they arrived, but then the men inside dropped behind whatever cover they could find while attempting to drag the man out of the room. It was helpful that he had been deemed too important to die by both sides, or the mission would have been a failure.

Glancing back at Clint, he nodded, and she opened fire. His arrows whizzed past her, mostly with the tips he had invented to do more damage than her handguns. It took thirty-four seconds to bring down everyone in the room, with minimal damage sustained at the hands of their enemies. They were bleeding, sure, but nothing serious. She hurried forward and helped the man they'd been sent to find to his feet.

"Thank you," he said hesitantly, looking between them.

"I am Agent Romanoff from SHIELD. This is Agent Barton. We are going to need you to come with us," she said officially. He nodded, seeming somewhat relieved at the name of their organization. She glanced over at Clint, who was collecting his arrows, and smirked. "Do we have an exit strategy, Agent?" she asked.

He smiled, cocking his head, listening. "Nope. Let's get out of here before they regroup." The man looked considerably startled at that, but then she had rushed him out of the room and he had no time to protest. The flurry of activity the followed eventually resulted in returning to HQ unharmed, with their package in tow. And that's all that mattered.


	8. Thought I'd been through this in 1919

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing!**

**8. Thought I'd been through this in 1919, counting the tears of ten thousand men**

She wasn't wearing any shoes. Her cocktail dress was out of place in the dim warehouse, and there were a few runs in her stockings. The chair beneath her was old, brittle, and would come in handy if she needed it. Her wrists were bound to it with paracord, which would be difficult to break but easy enough to slide down and off the wood if the chair was broken. One of the men struck her across the face, and she acted convincingly frightened. To intimidate her further, she was leaned backwards in the chair over the several-story drop behind her.

The official questioning her was arrogant, glad to explain to her how she was just a misinformed girl. Though he did call her pretty, which was nice. He signaled one of his men when she responded, perhaps annoyed that she wasn't sufficiently cowed. The man opened her mouth uncomfortably as the officer walked over to their table of implements for torture. Amateurs, she thought. There was nothing small enough to be of good use in an interrogation; large blunt objects were not useful if you wanted information. They made the pain too intense too quickly.

Suddenly, a phone rang, giving them all pause. She watched, expressionless, as the other hired muscle answered the phone and then handed it to his boss. He blustered into it, but then stopped, intimidated, and brought the phone to her. She frowned, leaning her head to hold it in place on her shoulder.

"We need you to come in," Coulson told her.

She wasn't surprised it was him. Who else would call her? If she hadn't been so annoyed, she would have been amused of the effect the mild-mannered agent had on her mark. "Are you kidding? I'm working," she said impatiently.

"This takes precedence," he replied placidly.

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything," she told him. The mark looked at his men and seemed distressed. She might have felt sorry for him, if she didn't know what he'd been up to lately. She gave him a look when he tried to deny it. "Look, you can't pull me out of this right now," she said firmly.

"Natasha." Coulson paused and her brow furrowed. "Barton's been compromised."

The words sent a chill through her, though she hid it well. Finishing this mission was something she'd have to wait on, then. Barton had never been compromised, as far as she knew. She forced herself not to consider exactly what that meant, and decided to get herself out of this situation first.

"Let me put you on hold," she said calmly, looking at the mark pointedly. He reached forward for the phone, and she kicked him, hard, despite her shoelessness.

The chair turned out to be more useful than she had initially thought, using it to knock out the hired muscle. Then she wrapped a chain around the officer's leg and tossed him out into the open space. He didn't scream, to his credit. But perhaps he just realized no one would hear him. There was no reason to let this be a total loss, and who knew when she'd be back to finish the job. Her opponents effectively dispatched, she returned to her phone and picked it up, as well as her heels.

"Where's Barton now?" she asked, voice still level.

"We don't know."

"But he's alive," she pressed.

"We think so. I'll brief you on everything when you get back," Coulson assured her in his own mild way. "But first, we need you to talk to the big guy," he added.

She smirked. "Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me," she reminded him, amused.

"Oh, I've got Stark. You get the big guy," Coulson clarified.

She stopped in her tracks and looked back behind her. "Bozhe moi," she muttered.

It took her a little while to get back to town. She stopped and put her shoes on before she went very far, aware that the ground was not exactly free of debris. Nails, she thought, that would be an unfortunate way to go down. Yes, sorry, Agent Coulson, but I've stepped on a nail so you'll have to get another intermediary to track down Banner and ask him nicely to come visit. The thought was tempting, though.

Her cover was blown, anyway, so it was good she was skipping town. Not that she would have been in much danger, at least not out of her depth, but she didn't mind a change of pace. She never had. A SHIELD quinjet was waiting to pick her up, and took her most of the way to Banner's location. Briefings were waiting for her, and she read them carefully while they flew. She hadn't been there when Thor showed up before, but Barton had related the experience. She was a spy, and her life had been strange and otherworldly at times, but nothing compared to this.

Thor's brother, Loki, was apparently intent on world domination. She remembered some of the mythology concerning Asgard, but who knew how much of it was accurate? She preferred to go into situations with as few preconceived notions as possible, so she pushed the stories out of her head. Loki had done something to Clint, something to take him over. It was unbelievable. Clint wasn't exactly the kind of guy who let himself be led. He listened to orders, sure, but he'd had no problem disobeying them if he thought he knew better. For which she owed him her life.

She had known about the Tessaract, but nothing specific. How Loki had gotten it to work for him was a disturbing mystery. But it wasn't like they knew too much about it; maybe they were just lucky nothing else had come through in all the time they'd had it. Fury was rounding up the best people to fight the threat, which was like him. She couldn't help but wonder if any of them could possibly know what they were dealing with.

* * *

><p>Bruce was hiding out in a slum, playing doctor to those who couldn't afford help elsewhere. They had known where he was for some time, though she hadn't been briefed before. It wasn't any of her business. Until now. She didn't blend in well here, not as well as in most other countries, but she managed to keep an eye on him for a little while without him noticing. Then she found a little girl and tried not to think about what she had been doing at that age, and used her to bring Bruce outside the city.<p>

Though she knew the place was surrounded by SHIELD operatives, it took significant effort to keep her unease from showing when he arrived. He looked uncomfortable, shy, awkward, but she'd seen what he could do. In videos from cell phones and other less than perfect media, but seen it she had. So when he fidgeted and moved around restlessly, she stayed still and calm, her voice level and business-like. Until he had shouted at her, and she'd tipped her hand.

Pulling the gun out was something she'd prepared for, but now she had to tell the other operatives to stand down. And that let him know just how worried she had been. It had been up to her to design her own missions, the specifics at least, for many years. This one was no different. But never before had she broken character, revealing everything because she was startled. She'd had to abort missions, failed a few, but nothing like this.

Of course, she hadn't failed this mission. He'd come with her eventually, when she assured him that they were after his scientific expertise, not his other tendencies. Now, thinking about it, she wonders if she knew she was lying. Sure, that's what Nick had said they needed him to do. But she knew Nick. And she knew the Avengers was his pet project. The Hulk, the other guy, would make an excellent addition to his team.

So she'd known, undoubtedly, that Banner was an important asset for reasons other than the fact that the Tessaract gave off gama radiation. So, was it the fact that he'd realized her lies that had distressed her so much? Not many had been able to read her that well, and certainly not on the first encounter. She lied so easily and so well that sometimes she didn't know what was real anymore.

All that aside, she couldn't deny that part of her reaction was because of Clint. Because he'd been taken and no one knew where, or what had been done to him. It was perplexing and set her on edge. Clint had been a constant fixture in her life for close to a decade, and the thought of losing him was unpleasant, to say the least.

* * *

><p>With a heavy sigh, she pulls herself out of bed, wrapping a robe haphazardly around her thin pajamas. Her footsteps are light as she crosses the apartment to the kitchen, glancing briefly again into her guest bedroom to reassure herself. The coffee maker is on and she smiles, heading out onto the balcony.<p>

"Hey, Clint," she says quietly.

"Hey yourself," he replies, not glancing up from the newspaper he's reading, lifting his mug to his lips.

"I thought you'd left."

He smiles slightly. "Trying to get rid of me already? After you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to help you with your little problem?"

She sighs, dropping into the chair next to him and taking his coffee. A grimace passes over her face as she drinks it, not enough sugar, but she finishes it off anyway. "Don't go too far. I might still need you."

Setting the paper down, he cocks his head at her. "In over your head, 'Tasha?"

"Maybe."


	9. And gathered them all, but my feet are

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing!**

**9. And gathered them all but my feet are slipping, there's something we left on the windowsill**

There had been times she was over her head before. Times when it was mostly luck that she had survived. How odd that Clint was usually around when that happened. Except for the most recent iteration. But maybe she just hadn't been self-aware enough before to notice or care when the odds were stacked against her.

When she arrived on the helicarrier, she met Steve Rogers for the first time. She'd read his file, of course, but it wasn't as informative as more recent files. Fury had been clever, when they'd unfrozen him, to test his capabilities. And Rogers did not disappoint, immediately picking up on the slightly off recreation of the forties they had put together. They hadn't quite expected him to take off sprinting into Times Square, but it wasn't like it was that much of a surprise.

He still dressed like it was the forties, she noticed. It made him look older than he, at least physically, actually was. He was polite to her and to Banner, seeming legitimately interested in the man himself and not in the firepower he might be bringing to the team. Fury talked to their newly captured enemy, who baited them. Unsurprisingly. He was clever; mythology had remembered him as a trickster god, after all. So Fury had sent her in, since who knew if Thor had the capability to interrogate his own brother.

She moved silently into the room where his cell was located, and waited for him to notice her. He was impressed by her stealth, seeming pleased. As she suspected, he was surprised to see her rather than a more violent interrogator. It was foolish of him, but she'd played on the assumptions of men for years. When he asked, she willingly explained her past. As with Banner, a little bit of truth went a long way.

It shouldn't have been a surprise that he knew about her, about what she'd done. He'd gotten to Clint, after all. How they found the time to discuss her sins was a mystery, since she couldn't see Loki knowing he could use it against her. But maybe he questioned Clint about everyone and everything. Of the Avengers, she was certainly the most well-known to Clint. So she was only thrown for a moment, but she played it up deftly. The god ate it up, as he was supposed to, and she got him to tip his hand.

She hadn't known she would be able to best him, not in a battle of wits. It touched her that Fury thought she could, that he put his trust in her. And maybe that's why it had seemed so easy. Not that it ended up mattering, of course. Clint and his men had attacked at just the right moment, before she could get Bruce to a secure location, and she had been trapped with him. The fall hadn't injured either of them, but apparently it didn't need to. She spoke soothingly, as soothingly as she could, trying to convince him, earnestly vowing on her life that he would be fine, that they would get out of this.

"Your life?!" Bruce had snarled, making it clear just what he thought of her promises. She had only been frightened a few times in her life, truly frightened that she might not make it out of this. That wasn't the first, but it had been a long time, perhaps since she was a child, since she'd felt the pure terror of facing off against something so far above her. Not when she'd faced enemy agents, powerful men, without an extraction plan. Not until more recently, when she'd fought a ghost.

It was Clint who brought her back, back from that precipice of fear, though it was hardly intentional on his part. Someone reported into her comm that he was there, and she knew that was why she'd come, why she'd left her op in Russia. She knew what she had to do. Finding him was not difficult, he wasn't hiding. They fought, and she thought about all the other times they had fought in less deadly circumstances. Still, she had always been able to beat him, and a head injury served to somehow interfere with what Loki had done to him. So she knocked him out, and he returned to her. She had to strap him down for a while first, sure, but he made it.

Coulson's death rattled everyone, herself included. She knew how Fury would react, knew he would try to use it to patch the rift between the team. Maybe it should have bothered her, the way he took advantage of the situation, but it never had. She supposes she was just trained long enough in that world not to be surprised. It was a silent game of cloak and dagger, and perception was often more important than reality.

When Clint questioned her about knowing what it was like to be unmade, he had seemed almost desperate. She hadn't seen him like that before, so raw, needing some confirmation of his personhood. Some assurance that he was back in the world, that what happened to him could be overcome. The moment passed, and he was back to his normal self, joking about putting an arrow in Loki's eye. She didn't admit to herself how much of a relief that had been. All the worrying she had been doing, had been forcing down deep, went away when he was back.

Steve had come to her quarters to fetch her, which was something of a surprise. He hadn't been informed of her strategic value as far as she was aware. But he'd taken her into his confidence, perhaps because Stark recommended her, and was willing to trust a recently-brainwashed Clint just because she cleared him. It was unusual, being trusted so thoroughly, so quickly. Usually she had to make more of an effort to engender confidence. Perhaps that was why she was so fond of working with Steve. No one else made her feel like she could be someone heroic, someone noble.

Clint was right, they weren't soldiers. But Steve was, and he knew how to direct a team. Now that they were willing to act like one, he showed that his reputation as a brilliant tactician was not exaggerated. Even looking back, she didn't think she could have better utilized their abilities. He'd asked her to stay on the ground with him, which was unexpected. But following orders was ingrained in her, as it was in him. She was just a little more willing to ignore that training.

She'd had years of combat training, years of using her body as a weapon. But fighting aliens was certainly not something even the unconventional Red Room had considered important. The stress of it was getting to her, as she almost shot Steve with an alien weapon. Over her head again, perhaps. But she knew they'd never succeed this way. There were only six of them, fighting an army. Something had to be done about the army, not just try to fight one guy at a time. Steve was supportive of her idea, because that's who he was. She'd learned a lot about him that day, enough to know that she would willingly to work with him, just as she was always willing to work with Clint.

If she didn't think too hard, using Steve's shield and jumping onto one of their ships was easy. It was insane, and she wonders, now, what came over her, trying such a tactic. Loki had found her, and Clint had saved her. As he always did when she got herself into this kind of mess. It was quite a relief when she managed to land on the tower at last, to see about disabling the device. Loki followed her, partly due to Clint's explosive interference, but Bruce took care of him effectively.

Selvig had suffered a head injury, fortunately. She wondered, briefly, why the god had such a fallible weapon. The people he controlled would certainly be in situations where blows to the head were a possibility. For the weapon to cease its usefulness in that case seemed like an oversight. Still, it was lucky that Loki had brought his scepter so close to the Tessaract, so close to be used to undo all his hard work.

"I can close it. Can anybody copy? I can shut the portal down," she said, trying to keep the uncertainty from her voice.

"Do it!" Steve ordered.

"No, wait," Tony interrupted. "I got a nuke coming. It's going to blow in less than a minute."

She fought against the horror she felt. The World Security Council was the only thing that could have given that order. And she couldn't help but think that it must have gotten around Fury, because how could he accept such a possibility? How could anyone? Nuking an entire city, one of the largest in the world, in the vague hope of destroying their enemy was a terrible decision. It was hard to keep her hands steady as she waited to see what would happen with Stark, staring up into the bright light.

"Close it," Steve said softly, resignedly.

So she did, as Selvig had told her. And it closed. She wasn't sure she'd ever felt such a sense of relief as when she saw Stark drop through the closing portal. He dropped out of her sight, but she was sure he made it. His voice on the comm, startled and babbling about shawarma, was wonderful. She hadn't gotten along with Stark, much preferred Pepper, but he was capable of being a great man between all the complaining and snarky quips.

They had saved the world. She had been on a multitude of missions, both for this country and against it, but nothing was like this. The news covered it for months. Fury was able to keep Clint and her out of it as much as possible, since they were, after all, still secret agents. But it would be impossible, even for SHIELD, to hide them from that kind of response.

The world is different now, she thinks. Nothing will ever be the same as it was, but she is adaptable. She has always found a way to survive, regardless of her situation. So her life may look very different now, after the events of recent months, but the change really started the day Coulson brought her in to find Bruce Banner. She doesn't know if it's better this way or not, but she saved Clint. And closed the portal before more aliens could come through, though it's possible Selvig could have handled that without her.

Was the red wiped out of her ledger? She doesn't know. It seems like, the more she works on a team, the more red she gets. But it's usually reciprocated, so maybe she is breaking even. At least with her team. Whether or not she will ever make up for how she spent her formative years remains to be seen. And may be a matter of opinion anyway. She's done terrible things; should she really be forgiven for them?


	10. We'll see how brave you are

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! The dialogue is from one of the deleted scenes on CATWS.**

**10. We'll see how brave you are, we'll see how fast you'll be running. We'll see how brave your are, yes, Anastasia**

The news of the Avengers eventually died down, and she was able to go back to work like she always had. Things had changed, certainly; people who had previously been unaware of SHIELD were now interested in what they were doing. She was recognized occasionally, though knew what it took to blend in. Her red hair was a problem and she dyed it for a while before going back. After what she had gone through in her youth, it seemed very daring to let her vanity potentially blow her covers, but it was a good kind of rebellion. It wasn't a problem, at any rate, and most of her missions didn't rely so much on pretending to be someone else.

Whether or not it was a PR move, Fury liked to have Avengers go on missions together. Since Tony was always doing his own thing, Thor was who knew where, and Bruce didn't want to be the other guy, that meant she spent a lot of time with Steve and Clint. Steve was certainly recognizable, well-known. So any mission with him was not going to require covert ops, even if he did prefer a more subdued suit than the stars and stripes.

In the two years since he was unfrozen, Steve had made great strides. He had learned to hone his strength into something ruthlessly efficient (though perhaps the lesson was not quite as well-learned for him as for his best friend), and he had started dressing like most other people his age. Maybe a little old-fashioned, sure, but not so obviously. He moved up in SHIELD and worked well for them, despite the fact that he didn't like how Fury ran things. He was still a soldier, not a spy, and probably always would be.

She rarely went on solo missions anymore, but Steve always made sure she had some freedom to do her own thing. She appreciated that. It wasn't that she didn't like working with a team, just that she's always felt more comfortable if there weren't any variables introduced on her side of the op. There would be enough unpredictability coming from places she couldn't control. So Steve let her handle parts of the missions using her own discretion, and that was why she continued to work with him.

Clint was always a great partner, and she had gone on missions with him since she had first come to SHIELD. They worked in sync almost perfectly, requiring little verbal communication. In the field, being able to be on the same page as your team was integral to success. Fury had seen, early on, that she and Clint could communicate that way, despite their differences in how they approached most things. When it came to the job, they were the same. Being stuck under cover with him for extended periods of time was not her favorite, but she did enjoy his company regardless of their situation.

She can't help but wonder if she might have made a different decision if she had been with Clint instead of Steve when the truth about SHIELD came out. Clint had been undercover; the news had been a shock for him, of course, but he was as adaptable as she was. Not that they would have gone over to HYDRA, but perhaps destroying everything and starting over wasn't what they would have chosen. Steve always saw the world in binary terms, everything was black and white. That was an idealistic approach to life, one which she had never considered accurate. Seeing Steve use it, though, made her think that perhaps it was a valid viewpoint after all.

When her mission on the Lemurian Star was not transparent, not known to Steve, he had been upset enough to talk to Fury about it. She had tried to play it off to him in the field, but she felt bad when it was because of her that Batroc escaped. It was sloppy, and she knew that Steve would have changed the op if he had known of her side assignment. Still, Fury was keeping things close to the chest (for good reason), so she knew better than to share with anyone what she was doing. Not with Clint or Steve or Maria. As one of Fury's most trusted agents, she was aware that she was the sole confidant of his on any number of missions. Perhaps between Maria and herself they knew everything, but she wouldn't be surprised if there were things neither of them knew.

It hurt her that Fury hadn't told her, hadn't taken her in, when he and Maria had faked his death. Why would he not trust her with that? Hadn't she earned it, after all these years? Had she done something to make him doubt her loyalty to him? Because it had been loyalty to Fury, not to SHIELD, that kept her there. It made her reconsider everything. So maybe that, more than anything, was why she had sided with Steve when he told them SHIELD needed to go.

How had Maria known they needed to be rescued after they encountered the Winter Soldier? They were on the way to HQ, which shouldn't have been known to anyone. But perhaps they had a way of tracking Sitwell. HYDRA had known, apparently, had been able to send the Soldier after him. And the STRIKE team had caught up to them pretty quickly. So somehow their position had been blown. It is a habit of hers, going over missions to find where they went wrong, but the thought of doing so now just made her tired. They were out of their depth when it happened.

She is also not fond of thinking of the few times in her life where she has felt helpless. And dropping behind that car after she had been shot, for the second time, by one of the most ruthless assassins in history, had definitely been one of those times. If Steve hadn't caught up to her, to them, at that moment, she is sure she would not have survived the encounter. And now she's survived two such encounters. She wonders if anyone else has been so fortunate. Unlikely. He didn't become a ghost story by leaving a noticeable amount of survivors.

After Maria had rescued them, and taken them to Fury, it was difficult for her to control her feelings of betrayal and abandonment. She knew it was tactically unwise to tell many people you'd faked your death, but she couldn't get over the fact that she hadn't been one of them. Maybe spending all that time with Steve made her soft, made her no longer comfortable with how intelligence agencies worked. Fury had looked to her when Steve said SHIELD needed to go, had looked to her and to Maria to decide what to do. That was nice, but it wasn't enough. Would anything be anymore?

* * *

><p>Sleeping was difficult. She liked to sleep on her side, but her newly wounded shoulder made either side uncomfortable. Unlike many of her peers, she rarely had trouble sleeping before a mission. Perhaps that was a result of the Red Room – sleep whenever you can because who knows when you'll get the chance again. She noticed that Steve and Sam, as soldiers, had the same talent. It was part of the job. She stayed up for a while anyway, looking at their intel and trying to determine if there were any other options available.<p>

A stumbling sound alerted her to Fury's approach. She didn't look at him as he dropped into the chair nearby because she didn't want him to know how he'd hurt her.

"Didn't think you could make it up the stairs," she said, glad that her voice didn't betray her.

"It wasn't pretty," he told her, laughing shortly. "Here you go."

He held out a box containing the photostatic veil she would be wearing for the mission. It had been determined, given her condition, that she would not be undertaking the jumping and diving between helicarriers part of the op (not that they had known it would require that at the time, of course). She turned to look at the box as he explained its recent calibration.

"Thanks," she said, and got up to go, then stopped. "I thought you were dead, Nick," she told him frankly.

He looked away. "I had to keep the circle small," he answered slowly. "You'd have done the same thing."

"I know. That's the problem." Straightening her shoulders, she walked away from him.

* * *

><p>As she lay in her makeshift bed that night, and as she had been driven to the Triskelion the next morning, she thought about her life. She thought about who she had been before Clint had found her, who Fury had helped mold her into, and considered who she wanted to be. When she'd asked Steve who he wanted her to be, he had dodged the question and called her a friend. And she found, to her surprise, that being his friend was important to her, too. She'd always had connections and contacts, but those relationships were laced with doubt and deceit. Not what Steve wanted, and maybe she didn't, either.<p>

Hiding her injury wasn't particularly difficult, since she was playing a woman who was more advanced in years. Bones might be expected to ache. It took effort not to flinch when she saw Pierce, though, now that she knew who he was and what he had done. Not that she'd known the half of it at the time, she thinks, glancing back into the apartment behind her. Clint glances at her, but doesn't interrupt her train of thought.

Going undercover had always been easy for her, and this time was no different. She'd waited to reveal herself as long as possible, but it had always been the plan. Fury hadn't been too happy about the idea of releasing all their intel onto the internet, but it was the most effective way to bring down an intelligence agency. Any intelligence agency. By that point, she was tired of the secrecy, tired of hiding, and she wanted to live up to what Steve thought of her. It was funny, being around Captain America. He always saw the best in people, and it made everyone who came in contact with him want to be what he expected. She'd seen it happen to others, and never expected it of herself.

But when it came time to pull the trigger, figuratively, and show the world who she really was, she didn't hesitate. She didn't think about how that might affect her career or her life, because she knew it was the right thing to do. She could sacrifice her image, her covers, to save everyone from the machinations of a terror organization. That was what she had signed up for at the beginning, after all. She had just expected it would take her life, not her livelihood.


	11. And all your dollies have friends

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! I may be a little inconsistent with the updates for the next few days, since it's Thanksgiving and all. But I'll do my best! Lots of Clint in the next chapter, and Bucky (finally) wakes up in chapter 13 :)**

**11. And all your dollies have friends, thought she deserved no less than she'd give**

The fallout from leaking all their intel was, unsurprisingly, intense. Their headquarters was gone, any agents in the field went into hiding or tried to get back to the States. They were treated like terrorists, feared and hated. Because of HYDRA. It made her angry, and she decided to do something else she had not done before – speak out. She had always done as she was told, served the KGB and then SHIELD loyally without question. But now, her covers were blown and she couldn't do what she always had. Time to try something else.

So she put on her best suit (when had she last worn a suit?) and went to Capitol Hill to correct their misconceptions about their organization. Fury's death was mysterious, rumors of it being faked were flying, and the way he had run things was called into question. There was no one else to speak for them, no one more official than she was. Except Maria Hill.

* * *

><p>"Nat, you shouldn't stay here for long," Maria said to her.<p>

Natasha didn't ask how she'd found her, in this cheap hotel, while she decided what to do next. "I know," she replied, not glancing up.

"But we need you."

Taking a deep breath, she stopped reading the paper and made eye contact with the woman who was arguably her superior. "For what?"

Maria scanned the room, expression carefully closed, but she could see the disappointment in her current situation. "SHIELD is gone. They think we were all HYDRA."

She snorted. "And you're saying we weren't?"

"Fury wasn't."

"They think he's dead."

"Which is the only reason the media hasn't been reporting on his terroristic past that they should have seen all along. It's only a matter of time, if we don't do anything," Maria explained.

Pursing her lips, she stared down at the paper in her hands. "What can we do?"

"I've been summoned to speak in front of a Congressional task force. I may not be Deputy Director anymore, but I owe SHIELD that. I owe Fury that. And so do you."

Maria was so cool, so calm, all of the time. Natasha usually was, too, but she jumped to her feet at that. "Do I? When I didn't merit a call or even a sign that he wasn't dead? You knew what it did to me," she snapped.

"I couldn't tell you, and you know that!" Maria insisted, flinching at Natasha's reaction.

Since she'd gotten a response from Maria, she calmed down a little. "I've lost everything, Maria. I gave SHIELD my life, what am I supposed to do now?"

Maria gave her a small smile. "You've always been adaptable, Romanoff. I'm sure you will be fine. Better than the rest of us, in fact. But I need you here. Everyone else is gone, you're an Avenger. They'll listen to you."

"What do you expect them to do? Say SHIELD was just misunderstood and we can all go back to work?" she suggested snidely.

The smile faded, and Maria frowned at her. "Don't be petty, Natasha. I know you're upset. But think of our agents who are still out there. Whose lives are in real danger because of what we did. Think about Barton."

Without thinking, Natasha slapped her across the face. Maria gave her no reaction, and she forced herself to calm down. "You know where he is."

"Yes. He's safe, for now. But we can't get him out until things cool down. Please, Natasha, we need you."

"Fine."

* * *

><p>The questions were understandably aggressive and pointed. Their interrogation strategies were not as effective as her own, of course, but she found herself getting angrier and angrier as the hearing continued.<p>

"Why haven't we yet heard from Captain Rogers?" one asked impatiently, clearly uninterested in what a former Soviet spy had to say.

She pursed her lips. "I don't know what there is left for him to say. I think the wreck in the middle of the Potomac made his point fairly eloquently," she answered, managing to keep her voice calm.

"He could explain how this country is expected to maintain its national security now that he, and you, have laid waste to our intelligence apparatus," he continued, emphasizing her involvement.

"HYDRA was selling you lies, not intelligence," she corrected him, brow furrowing.

"Many of which you seem to have had a personal hand in telling."

Another official leaned forward. "Agent, you should know that there are some on this committee who feel that, given your service record both for this country and against it, that you belong in a penitentiary, not mouthing off on Capitol Hill," he continued.

Her fists clenched under the table. She'd known, going in, that they would likely refer to her past. To what she had done, what she'd spent years trying to make up for. It wasn't their right, those wealthy men with their cushy lives who had never known real fear, real danger, in their time on this planet. What sacrifices had they made for their country? How could they possibly understand what she had done?

"You're not going to put me in prison. You're not going to put any of us in a prison," she said sharply. "You know why?"

"Do enlighten us," the man said condescendingly.

"Because you need us. Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we helped make it that way, but we're also the ones best qualified to defend it. So, if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You'll know where to find me."

With that, she got to her feet and strode out. People photographed her and shouted questions at her, but she was done. She wasn't going to put up with this anymore. She'd done what Maria had asked, defended her boss, her friend, and her organization was well as she was capable. But this wasn't her forte. She wasn't used to such overt tactics, and she didn't like being out of her comfort zone.

After driving around to shake any tails she might have, she returned to her hotel room. She turned on the television, but not for long. National news was unavoidable, and she didn't like seeing her own face on it. She didn't like the way her discomfort, her anger, was obvious. At least to her. In any case, she didn't want to be reminded of what she had tried and failed to do. It was time to do something she knew she could accomplish instead.

* * *

><p>"You should be honored: that's about as close as he gets to saying thank you," she told Steve, smiling as she approached. She didn't watch Fury disappear in the other direction.<p>

"Not going with him?" Steve guessed, looking over at her.

"No," she answered with a smirk.

"Not staying here?" he asked, walking closer as Sam moved a few steps away.

"I blew all my covers, I've got to go figure out a new one," she said casually.

His brow furrowed. "That might take a while."

"I'm counting on it." Her smile was genuine; she would be glad to be out of the world for a while. Steve looked less happy about it. "That thing you asked for," she added, glancing at Sam politely not listening a few yards away. "I called in some favors from Kiev."

She handed him the folder she'd worked very hard to obtain. It would have been impossible any time before SHIELD, and HYDRA, had been taken down. But information was a little more accessible these days. And she had some old friends. She watched the way his looked intently down at the file, opening it to see the picture of his best friend looking ghastly in cryofreeze. And rather charming in his uniform. It hurt to see Steve's expression, though he hid it pretty well, all things considered.

"Will you do me a favor?" she asked gently. He glanced up at her, puzzled. "Call that nurse?" Before, when she'd offered her ideas on potential dates, she'd always been teasing, confident. Now, she thought about how alone he was, how desperate he was to find his friend. He needed more than that, especially if she was going to disappear for a while. So she was really asking him this time.

"She's not a nurse," he replied, almost cheekily.

"And you're not a SHIELD agent." Her answer was still gentle, ignoring his tone.

"What's her name again?" he asked, a small smile appearing.

"Sharon. She's nice," she said honestly, watching his face carefully. He nodded slowly, and she pulled him closer to kiss his cheek. She was going to worry about him. "Be careful, Steve. You might not want to pull on that thread," she warned.

He nodded again and she walked away. There wasn't anything else she could do for him, not now. He was going to go after what remained of his friend, and nothing would stop him. He was always unwavering in pursuing his goals, like a dog with a bone. If anyone could find the Winter Soldier, he would. Of course, it was possibly the first time in seventy years that he wanted to be found. She'd gone after him once, but wasn't going to have a problem with leaving that job up to Steve.


	12. Well, happy birthday, her blood's on my

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! Happy Thanksgiving, people in the U.S. :)**

**12. Well happy birthday her blood's on my hands, it's kind of a shame 'cause I did like that dress**

When she got back to her hotel, she was not surprised to find a note waiting on her pillow. _Get out of town_, it said, with a phone number at the bottom. Maria's handwriting. She knew whose number it was. And she understood the warning. HYDRA was sure to want her dead, especially since she'd revealed herself. At Maria's behest. She sighed, and packed her bags.

As she walked down the street, she used a burner cell to call the number. It rang twice.

"Tasha."

"Clint."

"You okay?"

She smiled at the worry in his voice. It wasn't like him. "Yeah. You?"

"Well, you know, suddenly unemployed, but pretty good," he answered.

"You know where you're headed when you get out?"

He paused. "Not yet. But I can probably meet you in a few weeks. You know the place. It will take me a while to get there."

"That's fine, same here. Have to shake my tails. See you then."

"Be careful, Tasha. You could just stay with Stark," he suggested.

She laughed shortly. "He isn't that fond of me. But maybe when this blows over."

"You don't trust Stark to keep the assassins at bay?" he teased.

"I am familiar with his strengths," she replied diplomatically.

It was his turn to laugh grimly. "Good point. See you soon. Stay safe."

"I will," she promised.

* * *

><p>She hadn't stayed safe, of course. She usually didn't. Clint knew that about her, and maybe she was a little reckless. She had been meticulous, travelled to quite a few different places before settling for close to a week in a small town in South America. How had she not noticed when a suspicious number of foreigners descended on her location? HYDRA had been careful, the agents they sent were able to blend in pretty well. But maybe she was getting sloppy in her old age.<p>

It was a difficult fight. She had only a small portion of her arsenal remaining, having had more than one run-in with enemy agents on her journey. And she used all of it to defend herself. She needed to resupply at one of her safe houses, and had been planning on leaving soon. But not soon enough, apparently: she was in over her head, again. She couldn't get out of this by herself. But suddenly she was aware that she wasn't the only one in the fight. That someone else was helping her.

A quick assessment of him was all she could do, between fighting for her life, but he seemed vaguely familiar. When all the threats had been neutralized, she had leaped over to stop him from attacking her, not sure what his motives were. And then she had seen his arm through his sleeve, and suddenly his actions made sense. Well, some sense. She searched his face, struggling to recognize the machine-like Winter Soldier in the expressive features of the man in front of her. He seemed… Well, if not human, at least significantly closer than the last time she had seen him. Or the first time she'd seen him.

The drive to her other safe house was awkward, especially with her trying to subtly get the drugged needle out of her steering wheel without his noticing. He didn't. And she felt a twinge of guilt when she saw his betrayed expression after she'd drugged him. He fell unconscious almost immediately, and she sat back, letting out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Now what?

She pulled out her phone. "You here?"

"What's up, Tasha?"

Biting her lip, she glanced over at the unconscious man in the seat beside her. "I need some help," she said slowly.

* * *

><p>She leaned against her car and studied her fingernails nonchalantly. It was amazing how little attention people paid to you when you were minding your own business. And that was important, since most of espionage was waiting. Clint was only a couple of hours behind her, but sitting there with nothing to do was uncomfortable. Finally, she saw lights approaching, and moved away from the car to avoid detection just in case it wasn't him.<p>

"Hey, Tasha," Clint said conversationally as he pulled to a stop beside her. He hopped off his motorcycle and dragged her in for a hug before she could resist.

"I'm okay," she reassured him.

He smiled tentatively at her. "Good. Same here. Haven't been having as much fun as you have, though."

The smirk on her face may have been a little relieved. "Just been hanging out at your farm, Clint?" she asked politely.

Laughing, he shook his head and walked toward the passenger side of her car. "So, that's him, hmm?" he asked, leaning forward for a closer look. "He doesn't look that intimidating."

"Neither do you," she answered shortly, going to the trunk to grab her bags. And, after a moment, his.

"You sure you want to take Cap's crazy BFF home with you?" Clint asked, skeptical.

She smiled. "You mean home with us?"

He snorted. "I'm not planning on showing up for breakfast to say hi."

"Yeah, probably best not to startle him with new faces." She paused. "But I hope you'll be nearby in case he's not too happy with me when he wakes up."

Nodding seriously, he took one of the bags and swung it over his shoulder. "Let's go. I'm sure he'll be fine for a few minutes."

It was difficult not to glance back in concern, but she followed him to their place. It was heavy with stillness, which felt wonderful after the stressful last few hours. She kind of wished to just hole herself up in her room for a month. But not yet. They checked the perimeter and headed back out to the car.

"I'll take his feet, I guess," Clint grumbled.

"Why, scared of his arm suddenly waking up and attacking you?" she asked.

"Shut up, Tasha. Good lord, he's heavy. You think it's a super soldier thing?"

She laughed. "I don't know, Clint. I haven't tried lifting Steve, so I don't really have enough data to form an opinion."

He snorted. "Fine, I guess I'll ask him next time if we can carry him up some damn stairs."

"You think there's going to be a next time?" she asked quietly as they, finally, reached the guest bedroom and laid the Winter Soldier on her lacy coverlet, the juxtaposition bringing a smirk to her lips.

"Sure, I like working with Cap." Clint stepped back, looking a little unsettled. He turned to face her, gaze intent. "I'll be next door. Just holler if you need anything."

"Thanks, Clint," she answered sincerely.

"Well, you know, how could I refuse to help another brainwashed assassin?" he answered casually, shaking his head as he left. She smiled after him, then looked at the Soldier. And decided now was a good time to rethink what she was doing with her life.

* * *

><p>She leaves the porch, aware that Clint slips out the door to the other apartment. Almost automatically, her feet take her back to guest bedroom and she leans against the doorframe, looking at him. He isn't what she expected. He isn't what she remembered, either. Unconscious, he seems almost peaceful, and a lot younger. She remembers that he, like Steve, is really just a young man despite all the world-changing influence he's had. Possibly younger than her, though who can tell how much time he spent awake.<p>

A sigh escapes her as she thinks of the scar on her hip, and how terrified she was. She doesn't know why he didn't kill her. She expected him to. She remembers, vaguely, all the stories she used to hear about him when she worked for the KGB. SHIELD was less superstitious and not many of them believed in the Winter Soldier, but most of the Russians had spoken of him in whispers. She'd been absolutely sure that she wouldn't survive the encounter as soon as she'd seen him standing above them. It hadn't been a surprise when he took aim and fired, his blue eyes so icy and unfeeling. What had surprised her was that she wasn't dead, and that she might survive.

More recently, she had been able to maintain the upper hand long enough to tease him away from Steve when he had fallen. Her trap worked, but he caught on too fast and she barely managed to run before he was ready to shoot at her again. And then she had been truly afraid. If Steve hadn't found her when he had, she would certainly have been killed. It was just luck that his shot had hit her shoulder instead of somewhere more fatal.

Steve's experiences with the man were vastly different, and she can't help but feel curious about that. She reminds herself that her own experiences in the last day show he is, at least, no longer the Winter Soldier. Whether or not he will be Steve's friend again remains to be seen. In any case, he saved her life and she owes it to him to wait and see what he's like when he wakes up.


	13. It's funny the things that you find

**A/N: Sorry for not being around for a few days :) Thanks for reviewing!**

**13. It's funny the things that you find in the rain, the things that you find in the mall and in the date mines**

She curls up on the couch to read. The dosage was hard to determine, and she doesn't know how long he'll be out. Eventually, she hears movement down the hall and feels her muscles tense. With effort, she relaxes and doesn't look up until he is close by. Then she smiles and takes stock of him. He looks tired, not angry, and maybe a little disappointed. His disappointment is not as effective as Steve's, but she feels a twinge of guilt nonetheless. Discreetly, she signals Clint that she's fine when they go to the kitchen.

After he gets his bearings and has a drink, she settles back and looks across the table at him. "So, what kind of work do you have in mind?"

He meets her eye, cocking his head to study her. "I need intel. I can't get it."

"You want me to get it?"

Shrugging, he looks away. "If you can. I don't have access to anything like recent whereabouts of people."

"Except me."

"Except you."

She waits patiently as he pauses, brow furrowed. "Who are you trying to find, James?"

He flinches almost imperceptibly at the name, and she smiles grimly at the reaction. She remembers being made uncomfortable when people said her name, too. He'll get used to it. "I… I want to keep them from doing this to… to anyone else," he says haltingly.

She wonders, painfully, how much talking he's been allowed to do in the last seventy years. "Or to you," she presses. He shrugs, looking anywhere but at her. "James. I get it. It's not revenge. It's self-preservation," she says soothingly.

His eyes meet hers and he frowns a little, but not like he is trying to think of something. He's studying her, and she accepts his scrutiny without responding. "I have nightmares."

Biting her lip, she nods. "I can imagine."

"Can you?" he asks a little sharply.

She is reminded of when she first met Bruce, and he snarled at her to get a reaction. She doesn't think that is what James is doing, at least intentionally, but it takes considerable effort not to flinch at his tone, especially given their history. It is too dangerous, it might bring Clint, and she doesn't think James would react well to that. Instead, she smiles grimly. "Yes, James. Mine used to be pretty similar."

"Used to be?" he echoes.

Nodding, she gets to her feet and looks out the window. She knows Clint is watching, which is somewhat comforting as she considers her past. "They stop, eventually."

When she glances back at him, he seems deflated, staring intently at the table. "So I just have to wait," he whispers.

Tentatively, she walks over to him and gently puts her hand on his shoulder. "There are some things you can do to help. But first, why don't you go get cleaned up and then we'll get to work."

He nods, not looking up.

"James. It helps to have work," she tells him reassuringly. Then she steps back and he gets to his feet slowly. She stands out of the way and watches him make his way back down the hallway, trying to push away the unexpected urge to show him she understands exactly what he is going through.

* * *

><p>When he's clean, which she forces herself not to notice too closely, they search for information on her laptop. She prints him a copy as well as a digital one that will update itself whenever he plugs it into the network. He's grateful, and doesn't know how to show it. He doesn't like the intimacy of her knowing his mission, she thinks. Despite the fact that it's why he came here. But he understandably doesn't have a lot of trust for other people. She wonders if that's why he didn't go to Steve first. But she decides, at dinner, to keep the conversation light. Which is difficult, when he may not remember anything.<p>

"So, James, been anywhere interesting since you – since DC?" she asks, smiling disarmingly. He looks at her almost in almost sardonic disbelief, and she thinks it's the most human expression she's seen on his face.

"Kiev was nice. Familiar, I think," he says after a pause.

"I've been there a few times myself. It has a certain charm," she agrees. "Did you get to see much of DC before you left? It's one of my favorite cities."

He cocks his head at her. "Pretty familiar with the streets," he answers emotionlessly.

She laughs shortly. "Sorry, you were in hiding, right. How was that?"

A thin smile flits across his face. "Better than working for HYDRA."

"That's good to hear. I'd imagine most things will be."

"The food's good," he offers, gesturing toward his plate.

Laughing again, she shakes her head. "You don't need to be so polite. It's from a box."

"What?" he asks, baffled, and she tries not to laugh again. She hadn't expected him to be so… personable. People don't usually make her laugh easily.

"You can buy meals someone else put together and all you have to do is mix it together and put it in the oven," she explains. "So don't put the taste to my culinary expertise."

He nods slowly, thinking. She waits. "Steve definitely needs that."

"Not a good cook?"

She is tickled when he smiles at her almost conspiratorially. That's him, that's Bucky, she decides. "He was the worst. I used to _accidentally_ leave leftovers there all the time so he'd have something edible. He burned everything. It was better in the field."

"Why?"

"Well, we had MREs, you know, prepared meals. But you know how he is with rules."

Her brow furrows briefly, and he pauses, seeming confused. "How is he?" she asks gently.

"I… I don't know," he answers, frown deepening.

She reaches over to touch his right hand tentatively. "It'll come to you. You were doing really well."

He looks at her hand, then drags his eyes up to meet hers. She swallows. "What if I don't want to remember?" he asks, voice cracking.

"James. You want to remember. You want to know who you were. It's worse not to know, isn't it?" she answers, her voice steady.

He nods tentatively, and turns his hand over to squeeze hers briefly before drawing away. "Sorry," he mumbles, clearing his throat and looking intently at the table.

"Don't be. It's not your fault," she tells him firmly. He doesn't respond. "So, do you remember Steve being fond of jumping out of things before?"

The bait works and he looks up at her, lips twitching. "Jumping out of things?"

"Yeah, you know, planes, quinjets, elevators," she stops herself before adding helicarriers to the list.

He shakes his head slowly. "Not that I recall. But that does sound like something he wouldn't have told me."

She smiles. "Why wouldn't he tell you?"

Licking his lips, he considers. "I think… He didn't want me to be angry."

"Which you would be if he did something reckless?"

"Exactly," he answers with a small smile.

"Well, then, you probably don't want to hear what he's been up to lately," she says, leaning back with a confident smirk.

"Yeah?"

He seems like Bucky again, which makes her smile. "He's been getting up to some dangerous stuff. I don't think he's used a parachute in seventy years, but he just keeps jumping."

"Oh, Steve," he says dramatically, shaking his head. "I knew I couldn't leave him alone for long. You know, last time I left him alone, he went off with a German scientist he knew nothing about and let him experiment on him."

She laughs. "You know, I knew the story, but I hadn't thought of it that way. That was pretty ill-advised. Was he worse in the war?"

"He went thirty miles behind enemy lines and invaded a HYDRA facility all by himself."

"Why would he do that?"

James looks down, frowning. "To rescue me."

She nods. "That is pretty reckless," she says gently, getting to her feet. "It's been a long day. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Slowly, he stands up and takes his dishes to her sink, bringing another smile to her lips, before heading away down the hallway. She sighs. This isn't working.


	14. I'm on my way down

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing!**

**14. In the knot still in her hair, on the bus, I'm on my way down**

She doesn't sleep particularly well, but certainly better than the night before. She expects to be woken by nightmares, either her own or James', but is not. There is a text waiting from Clint when she gets up, and she answers it quickly before leaving her room. The guest room door is open, and it is empty. She walks tentatively to the kitchen, and finds him standing by the window, looking out. A mixture of relief and apprehension crosses her mind, but she pushes it away.

"Good morning, James."

He turns around, and she notes how well-rested he looks. "Natalia," he answers.

She smiles faintly and walks to the fridge to get breakfast. "Hungry?" she asks conversationally.

"Yeah. Can I help with something?"

Pausing, she assesses him, considering the surprisingly hesitant nature of the question. He looks back at her, meeting her eye, but seems uncomfortably exposed. She forces her smile to return. "Sure. Want to fry us up some bacon?"

"Alright."

The silence is broken only by, eventually, the sizzling of the bacon as she prepares the eggs and toast. She assumes that, like Steve, he prefers a lot of protein in his diet. When she glances over at him, it amuses her somewhat to see how intent he is on the task she gave him. She remembers being unnecessarily focused on simple activities, too.

When the food is ready, they sit down at the table and she decides it's been quiet too long. He appears too uncomfortable to break the silence himself.

"Natalia," she says, and he looks up sharply, confused. "No one has called me that in a long time."

He flinches. "Would you prefer if I called you something else?" he asks, sounding worried.

She smiles gently. "No, it's fine. I was just wondering how you knew it."

His brow furrows. "I… I don't know. Natasha is a fairly common nickname for Natalia," he offers.

Nodding, she sits back, finishing her breakfast. He eats slowly, and she can see the wheels in his head turning. She doesn't pry. But when he's done, he goes on sitting and staring and she decides to intervene. "James. How long will you stay?"

He glances up at her, staring in confusion for a moment before recognition flashes across his expression. Then he smiles. "Trying to get rid of me already?"

Relieved, she smiles back. "Well, you do eat quite a bit more than I was prepared for. But you can stay as long as you'd like," she adds sincerely.

Nodding, he gets to his feet. "I can't," he tells her firmly, turning away.

"I understand. All packed?" she asks lightly.

He nods again, decisively, picking up his pack from where it is lying near the door. She bites her lip.

"You want to check your room, just to be sure?"

His eyebrow raises, but he shrugs after a moment. "Alright," he mumbles, and drops his pack to walk down the hallway. Quickly, she opens a few of her cupboards and pulls out extra supplies for him, as well as a burner phone, and tucks them all into his pack. Then she sits back down and gazes nonchalantly out the window. "I'm ready," he says when he returns, looking at her curiously.

She smiles at him. "Good. Let's go," she answers, and holds up a blindfold apologetically. He smiles grimly and allows her to tie it on without moving. Then she leads him outside.

* * *

><p>She watches him walk away until he reaches a bend in the road and she can't see him anymore. Absently, she rubs at her hand where he kissed it, confused by her reaction to his gallantry. If he does ask her to dinner later, she is relatively certain she'll take him up on it. Which doesn't seem like the appropriate reaction for her to have, at all. Steve will certainly be nice to him, forgive him, be overly trusting, but Steve has a reason to be. What is her excuse?<p>

"So, did you kiss your Soviet boyfriend goodbye?" Clint's voice beside her startles her out of her reverie.

She laughs. "I thought he was Steve's Soviet boyfriend?" she teases.

"That would explain why he refuses to go on any of the dates we've set up," Clint answers thoughtfully.

Shaking her head, still smiling, she turns to walk back to the house. "He called Sharon," she offers.

"True. So maybe I should have been more worried about you, all alone at night with Bucky Barnes. Steve said he was quite the ladies' man."

"Did he?" she asks, glancing back at Clint, who shrugs. She stops and raises and eyebrow at him.

Clint smirks at her, but gives in to her silent questioning. "I was just thinking that, if Rogers was comparing Barnes to himself, that might not be all that impressive."

She smiles and continues walking. "Good point. Well, you'll be relieved to know that he neither tried to kill me again nor did he sweep me off my feet."

"Uh huh," Clint muttered knowingly. She gave him a withering look. "I mean, of course, you're absolutely right. Now, is there any coffee left? I've drunk all mine."

* * *

><p>"Do you think we should tell him?"<p>

Her voice breaks the stillness of the morning, and Clint stirs in the lounge chair beside her. He blinks a few times and then looks at her briefly before stretching back out and pulling his hat over his face.

"Tell who what now?" he asks tiredly.

"Tell Steve. About James."

"Bucky."

"Bucky," she corrects herself affably.

Clint sighs, thinking. She glances over at him, then back to their view. It's calming, peaceful, and she lets herself be swallowed up by that instead of thinking about what James is likely doing right now. Or on his way to do; he can't have gotten more than halfway there yet.

"Yeah, probably," Clint says at last and she drags herself back to the conversation at hand.

Pursing her lips, she cocks her head at him. "You want to call him up and explain that we found his friend but let him wander off again?"

"You gave him extra supplies, right?" Clint asks, opening one eye to meet her gaze.

"I did."

"Then I'm sure Rogers will be grateful. Better than sending him off empty-handed."

"You don't think he would have wanted us to, I don't know, keep him from going?" she wants to know.

"'Tasha, he's the damn Winter Soldier. Rogers may not have heard all the stories about him we used to, but he's got to know what kind of reputation he had. How could he possibly expect two unemployed former assassins to stop a ghost story?" Clint answers in a reasonable tone.

She smiles grimly. "You know Steve. He doesn't let things stop him."

Sighing heavily, Clint covers his face again and leans further back. "We're on vacation."

"You're right. That's definitely a valid excuse."

"Look, I'm completely supportive of you having more friends than just me, and if you think letting Steve know you sent his friend off to take down HYDRA by himself will help with that, be my guest. But you're not going to catch me having any qualms about the whole situation. If Barnes wanted Rogers to know where he is, he has had ample opportunity to alert him."

She bites her lip and doesn't answer.

"Go call Steve, 'Tasha. You'll feel better," he says after a few moments of silence.

"Alright."

* * *

><p>She sits on her bed, staring out the window, phone in hand. She hasn't spoken to Steve since she left DC a few weeks ago. They've exchanged a few texts, brief updates, but nothing more. She knows Steve is focused on finding his friend. But she doesn't think this was the kind of thing one emails or texts. So she dials his number. It rings three times before he answers.<p>

"Hello?"

"Steve? It's Nat," she says, pleased to find that her voice is calm.

There was a barely perceptible pause. "Hey, Nat. How's your cover coming?"

That's as good a window as any, she thinks. "Not fast enough. I was ambushed by HYDRA two days ago."

"Are you okay?" he asks sharply.

"Yeah, I made it out. With a little help."

"Barton?" he guesses.

She bites her lip. "Nope. Steve, it was… It was Bucky." Silence. She waits a moment to let him digest the information. "I don't know how he found me or why, but he just showed up and saved my life."

"Where?" His tone is no longer casual, and sounds just like it does on a mission.

"It doesn't matter, Steve, because it wasn't his last known location."

"What do you mean?" She can hear the stress in his voice and reconsiders her decision to tell him. Still, he asked her to be a friend, and that's what she's doing. She thinks.

"I, uh, I took him to my safe house. Where Clint and I are now, so I'm sure you'll understand if I don't disclose the location over this line." It's relatively secure, going off enough satellites to make pinpointing the signal difficult.

"He's not there now?"

"No, Steve. He's on a mission."

"To do what?" The question is painful, but he hides it well. A little too well, she's always thought.

"To take down HYDRA," she answers. "Well, part of it. I helped him find the people who made him what he is, and he wanted to go make sure they couldn't do it again. To him or to anyone else." Steve is silent, taking it in. "Look, Steve, I wanted to tell you because you didn't know if he was alive or dead, taken by HYDRA or out on his own. And I figured you'd want intel on him."

"I want to find him," Steve says with finality.

"I know, Steve, but you have to understand… He's not ready to be found."

"Except by you."

Was that a hint of bitterness in his voice? "Rogers, I don't know. I have no idea if he was looking for me or just happened to be in the neighborhood at the right time. But I've been through the same stuff, and he needs his space. He only stayed a little over a day, and he was drugged for half of it."

"You drugged him?"

Unexpectedly, he sounds almost amused. "Yeah, well, I didn't know if I could trust him," she mutters.

"How'd he take it?"

"Better than I expected. He wasn't very happy about it, but nothing major."

A long pause follows and she wonders if he's still on the line. "Thank you, Natasha. Do you have any way to get in touch with him again?"

"If you're asking if I got a locator chip on him, the answer is no. I don't trust most of SHIELD's tech to be completely safe from HYDRA, so who knows who else might be looking into that kind of information. I did give him a phone, though," she tells him, relieved that he seems to have regained composure.

"Alright. Well, I'd appreciate any updates on him that you get."

"Of course."

"Stay safe, Nat."

"You too, Steve."


	15. All the girls seem to be there

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! There will be 17 chapters to this story.**

**15. All the girls seem to be there**

After she finishes talking to Steve, she sits back and considers what to do now. She's in hiding, but the excitement from getting here is hard to adjust away from. Taking a deep breath, she decides to send James a message. After some deliberation, she tells him to be careful, and that she's thinking about him. When she was going through the same thing, knowing Clint was on her side was always beneficial to consider. So she hopes this will have the same effect.

She waits a few moments to see if he will respond right away, but supposes he's still walking, and may not have noticed what she gave him yet. So she goes back to the porch to sit with Clint. Opening the door very quietly, it amuses her to see that he is likely asleep. He always could sleep anywhere. She sinks into the chair next to him and looks out, absorbing the peacefulness of the scene.

"How'd he take it?" Clint asks suddenly.

"Did I wake you?"

He snorts, sitting up a little to glare at her. "I was just resting my eyes."

"Sure," she agrees amicably. "He took it alright. Once it sank in."

He nods, settling back down like he had been before her interruption. "It was good to tell him," he mutters.

"Hmm?"

"I was just thinking, if one of my best friends was out there, I'd want to know he was okay, no matter what else might be going on."

She studies him, gauging his statement. "Who are your best friends?"

"Fine, it's just you," he answers with a sigh.

Smiling, she shakes her head. "I don't have a lot of friends," she says after a pause.

"That's alright."

"Is it?" she presses.

"Tasha, you weren't exactly brought up to be friendly." She glares at him, and he holds his hands up disarmingly. "Not that you're a bad friend, it just doesn't come as naturally to you as, say, dropping a guy using nothing but your thighs."

The phrasing makes her laugh, and she ditches her offended expression. "You're right. Making contacts and cozying up to strangers was encouraged in the Red Room, but we weren't expected to actually maintain relationships."

He nods sleepily, then turns to look at her with sudden clarity. "That's it, isn't it?"

"What?" she asks, at a loss.

"Why you're being so… helpful toward Barnes. Because of the Red Room."

She shrugs, breaking eye contact. "Not because I'm friends with Rogers?"

"No, though that's part of it. But you think he's like you."

"Isn't he?"

"You'd know that better than me. I haven't ever met the guy. But I think rehabilitating another conditioned assassin would go a long way toward cleaning up your ledger," he says gently.

She bites her lip, surprised. But Clint always saw through her. "I hope so."

After watching her for a moment more, he closes his eyes and seems to fall back asleep. She waits for a while, digesting Clint's insight. Was that all the explanation, then, for her strange connection with Barnes? It might be, she concedes. It would be better to help him become human again than any other motives she might have. And having gone through a similar process herself will help.

Silently, she slips out of her seat and heads back inside. Her laptop is still on the coffee table in the living room, and she boots it up, then settles back to read. The SHIELD leak also released files of which she was not aware, and she wants to catch up. Knowing more than her adversaries has always been an effective tactical advantage. She opens that database and pauses, considering what she wants to see. Then she gives in to her curiosity and searches for the Winter Soldier.

* * *

><p>Sometime later, she can't help but feel shaken. The information was detailed, for the most part, and the creeping horror of how many people were involved in such a monstrous process is difficult to ignore. It went on for decades, treating him like that. Some of the reports reflected a more charitable view of their asset, but most didn't describe him as anything but an occasionally malfunctioning weapon. And what they did to him between missions was far worse than anything else.<p>

She should stop reading, she decides. Or at least find a less disturbing topic. There are blanks in his files, things redacted, which she finds mysterious. Especially given the detail on what she would assume to be highly confidential procedures in the other sections. Her phone buzzes and she jumps, then smiles at herself. Definitely time for a change in pace, then. Her smile broadens when she sees that it is a message from James.

"At base. Safe. Thanks for help."

It's short, but she's pleased he responded at all. She wasn't sure he would. After briefly considering crafting a response, she figures she'll wait until she has something to say. So she goes back to reading. This time, she reads about her own past. Somewhat surprisingly, there are pieces of it redacted as well, but she learns more about the Red Room and the Black Widow program than she had previously recalled. More of the people involved are listed, as well as current locations. Most of them are deceased or MIA, both Widows and officials.

She finds Yelena and clicks on her file. As expected, a command prompt opens itself in front of the window.

'Natalia.'

'Yelena.'

'Saw you on tv.'

'Yeah?'

'Still siding with your new masters?'

'More or less.' She isn't sure that it's still an option.

'Your friend liked the file?'

She smiles grimly. 'The favor was appreciated.'

'Good to hear. Need anything else?'

'Not at the moment. You?'

'You know I like helping you out, like when we were children. Makes me feel better about what happened after.'

Biting her lip, she glances around the room briefly. 'I always appreciate it. I'd feel better if I could do something for you.'

'Heard from Dezhnyov lately?'

'He's in Cuba.'

'Great, thanks.'

'You're going after him?'

'Yeah. He'll fetch me a great price.'

'From whom, Yelena?' Natasha presses.

'HYDRA. Don't worry, Natalia. I don't work for them. He's a bad guy and you know it's a better place for him than with SHIELD, who'd waste time on a trial.'

'How do you know they aren't recruiting him?'

'You may have been the most charming and the best dancer, but you know this is my specialty.'

She smiles slightly, remembering what it was like to work with Yelena. They were friends, but not good teammates. Not that being a team was really something the Red Room encouraged; it was a very competitive program. 'Alright. Stay safe.'

'You too.'

She sighs quietly. She had hoped for more information from her oldest friend, but knows both of them are in precarious situations. It's time to move on, anyway.

* * *

><p>As soon as they are able, they relocate to a new safe house. After that, they stay no more than two nights in a place before continuing. She won't admit it, but she prefers to have someone along while she's having to do this kind of maneuvering. It's rough on her own. James continues to send her a message once a day, though usually as taciturn as the first one. She updates him on intel when she can, and her messages are much longer than his, but she doesn't mind. It's out of his comfort zone. She stays in contact with Steve as well, keeping him apprised on his friend's situation.<p>

She doesn't know why Yelena got in touch with her recently, not long after the Avengers were formed. Her suspicions were aroused, of course, but have not been validated. Yelena stayed in the program until it was terminated. She'd been hiring herself out ever since, but was very happy to discuss her newfound freedom when her last Red Room handler left. Though joining SHIELD meant Natasha still had handlers, for a while, it was certainly an improvement. It's nice to have someone with similar experiences to talk to. Clint certainly didn't follow the traditional route to espionage (if there is such a thing), but his experiences before entering the field were vastly different from hers. So while Yelena's missions rarely have the same goals as Natasha's, there is a lot of common ground to connect them.

She finds herself looking forward to the infrequent conversations. The terminal isn't always open, naturally, but it is most of the time she checks. Yelena can't always talk long, but it's nice to chat. Between that, travelling with Clint, calls from Steve, and texts from James, she feels very supported. Perhaps more than she ever has been.


	16. Come along now, little darling

**A/N: Second-to-last chapter! I've got the sequel nearly done, and will hopefully start posting it this weekend. Thanks for reviewing! :)**

**16. Come along now little darlin', come along now with me**

One morning, three weeks and twelve safe houses without incident, Natasha boots up her computer to find the command window already open and stating her name. Frowning, she sits down at the kitchen table and responds.

'Natalia?'

'Yes?'

'I found your boyfriend.'

After a moment, the reference hits her and her blood runs cold. 'The Soldier?'

'Yeah. He's here.'

'Where?'

A latitude and longitude are provided, which she immediately copies over into mapping software. 'I just saw him. He slipped into the base behind me when I was bringing Dezhnyov. I don't think he'll make it out.'

'Why not?'

The pause before Yelena responds is painful, and she begins tracking how long it will take her to go get Steve and then go to where James is. It will take at least fifteen hours. It would be faster to go herself, but she remembers the most recent intel James has exchanged with her. She knows it's a big place. It was possible, she'd conceded, that a single person might be able to slip in and back out again without being noticed. But a rescue mission is out of the question without backup.

'He's good. Always has been, we know that. But I don't think I'll get out of here easily and they don't want me as badly as they want him.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

'For old times' sake.' There is a pause before Yelena continues. 'Plus he could put me out of a job.'

Natasha smiles grimly. 'Yeah, I guess that's a good enough reason.'

'I'll see what I can do, but you'd better hurry if you want to get to him before they do.'

'Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.'

'I never do.'

'If you catch me still there, don't talk to me. It would hurt my reputation.'

'Right back at you, Yelena,' she responds with a grin. Then she calls Steve.

* * *

><p>It takes longer than expected, but soon Natasha, Steve, and Sam are on their way to save Barnes. She hasn't heard from him in a few days, and the text messages she has sent since Yelena warned her of his dangerous location have not been answered. Steve is silent, worried, on the flight, though Sam is friendly enough. They chat and she tries not to think about what HYDRA will do to him when they find him. If they find him, she reminds herself. It's possible they won't.<p>

"What's the plan, Steve?" she asks, sitting down next to him while Sam lands the quinjet a few miles from the base. It's well-hidden, but she knows it's there.

He shakes his head, clearly bringing himself back to the present. "How many grenades do we have?"

She smiles grimly. "We can't be too destructive. We don't know where they're keeping him."

"You're sure they've got him?"

"Pretty sure. Do you want me to try contacting Yelena again while you come up with a plan?" she asks gently. He nods, and she does as he requests. To her surprise, her friend answers right away.

'Got out. Saw him, heard alarms, they stopped. Detention cells on third level down.'

"You ready?" Sam wants to know, coming to stand over them in the back.

"Yelena says the alarms stopped, so she's pretty sure they have him. Probably a few stories underground," she reports.

Steve nods. "Alright. This thing has weapons, right?" he asks, slapping the metal infrastructure nearest him. She nods. "Then let's use them to get as close as we can. We're going in guns blazing."

"Does he always do this when Bucky's involved?" she mutters teasingly to Sam as they situate themselves to take off again.

Sam laughs. "From what I've heard, yeah."

She smiles in response, and they go in.

* * *

><p>The base is in chaos when they enter. Gunfire deafens her and she hardly notices the sound of her own weapons when she discharges them. She runs out of four magazines before she's deep enough inside the facility to avoid most enemy operatives. There were some large open rooms to get through first, and HYDRA was out in force. But Steve was unstoppable, and she and Sam had no trouble following him and taking out the stragglers. She is relieved, slightly, to be sneaking down quiet corridors after the initial onslaught. It's more her style.<p>

They check room after room, sometimes having to kill those inside, sometimes freeing other prisoners. Regardless of who they are, adding to the general chaos will only help them move undetected a little longer. Steve's jaw is set, and he is more intense than she can remember seeing him. Gauging Sam's expression, she supposes Steve was like this on that last mission on the helicarriers, or Sam would be more surprised. It helps to focus on Steve's reaction rather than consider her own.

Finally, finally, they open a door and there he is. James is strapped down, staring blankly at the ceiling, muttering to himself. Steve starts forward in relief, then stops, glancing at her. Nodding to show her agreement with his silent suggestion, she moves slowly toward him. They have no idea what his mental state will be, something they had carefully avoided mentioning since she picked Steve up. But she understands his need to know if James will recognize him or not before faced with the reality. It's just unfortunate that she feels the same way.

He's been injured, a wound in his side. A few bruises, but otherwise seems fine. Except for his unseeing eyes. She leans over him and looks at him intently. To her relief, his eyes focus on hers, and she smiles. "Hello," she murmurs.

"Natalia," he says, his voice rough.

She looks back at Steve, whose look of relief is mixed with apprehension. Smiling reassuringly, she motions for him to help unfasten the restraints that are holding James in place. It takes a moment for him to move forward and help, which she doesn't acknowledge. Once James is free, he sits up and says hello to Steve. She watches the two of them, smiling slightly. She's glad to be a witness to their reunion. Sam is impatient to leave, which is good, since it's certainly not a safe place to linger. When James gets up, he is not steady and she puts her hand on his shoulder for support. He glances at her with a brief smile before he starts walking. She and Steve stay on either side of him to help him along, while Sam much more helpfully pays attention to their surroundings and leads them back out to the quinjet. Once James is inside it, he drops abruptly onto the bench and is asleep almost instantly.

"Where are we headed?" Sam asks as he makes his way to the cockpit. She and Steve are standing awkwardly in the back, trying not to watch James (Bucky) too closely.

"New York," Steve says. Sam nods and soon the engine roars to life. "You think he's okay?" Steve asks her quietly as he sits down across from James.

She remains standing, leaning against the wall next to the bench James is occupying. "I don't know, Steve," she answers honestly. "He recognized us. They didn't wipe him. But he's been drugged and wounded."

Nodding, his brow furrows. "Do you think he'll come to the Tower with us?"

A part of her wants to smile for assuming that she will be joining them. "We can ask him when he wakes up," she says gently.

"Why does he call you Natalia?" he asks suddenly.

The smile on her face feels almost shy, which is strange. "I don't know. It makes more sense when he talks to me in Russian, I suppose," she offers.

An almost painful look crosses his face. "He talks to you in Russian?"

"Yes. I'm not sure he's aware of it, but it's what most of our conversations have been."

"Do you think he's more comfortable with it?"

Though he doesn't say it, she's aware that he wants to know if he should learn Russian to talk to his friend now. She smiles reassuringly. "Sometimes when he speaks English he talks like you. Your accent, I mean. And I'm sure he'll remember more of your history if you speak to him like you used to."

He nods, but still looks worried. "I'm going to go check on Sam," he says awkwardly with strange abruptness. "Keep an eye on him for me."

"I will." He gets up and goes to the cockpit. She can hear them talking, but can't make out the words. Tentatively, she sits down next to James instead of taking Steve's vacated seat. He looks paler than when she last saw him, perhaps more exhausted. Being captured by your enemies can do that to a person, though, so she doesn't know if it's recent or if he's been having a hard time for a while. It was very lucky that Yelena was there, she reflects. She doesn't like thinking about the alternative.

When he wakes up, she tells him that he's been reckless. He smiles at her and she thinks she sees Steve's best friend in him again. Steve must, too, because he appears and she excuses herself to let them talk. They have a lot to catch up on, she reminds herself, and goes to sit with Sam. It's pleasant to chat with him for a while as they fly. Finally, they arrive in New York and land at the Tower. Tony is busy, as usual, but JARVIS directs them to rooms they can use. She says good night to everyone and heads to hers right away. It's been a difficult twenty-four hours.

'We got him,' she types to Yelena as she sits on her bed, after notifying Clint.

'Glad to hear you're reunited.'

She considers the phrasing and wonders at it before deciding she's too exhausted to care. 'Me too. Wanted to check in. Doing okay?'

'Just fine. You know me.'

'I do. Stay safe.'

'You too.'

Shutting her laptop, she turns off her phone and settles into bed. Tomorrow is sure to be interesting, and she'll need all the rest she can get.


	17. Come along, we'll see how brave you are

**A/N: Last chapter! Of this story :) It skips ahead a bit from the last chapter, so it's kind of an epilogue leading into the next story. Warning: Ending may cause emotional whiplash. Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with me and reviewed! It's always wonderful to have feedback! I will be start posting the next fic this weekend. Enjoy!**

**17. Come along now little darlin', we'll see how brave you are**

She likes to visit the Avengers, and having them all in one location is pleasant. But she doesn't want to live there. At least not all the time. She gets an apartment in the City, and Tony is all too happy to help her set up tech to make it secure. Some of it she might feel better not having, but it's a nice gesture. Sam lives in DC most of the time, and Steve takes James there frequently for some of the benefits the VA provides. Sam reminds Steve gently that there are similar facilities in New York, but maybe Steve is (understandably) concerned about James spending too much time around Tony. The others don't seem to know quite how to treat Captain America's brainwashed assassin best friend. Except for Clint, of course, who can get along with anyone. She's pleasantly surprised by how well they hit it off.

After a few weeks pass, she finds a note on her door when she comes home to her apartment. She is still doing some work for Fury and Maria, but not often in the field. Her identity is well-known and she isn't altogether comfortable with that, so she is at first concerned when she sees it. Then she smiles when she notices the Cyrillic writing.

'Natalia, dinner tonight at 7?" it says in Russian. The handwriting is large and square with each letter evenly spaced. Better than hers. She pulls the note down and checks her watch. Then she goes inside to get ready. Though she was exhausted after her day and looking forward to a nice bath, she showers quickly and dresses carefully.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes before seven, she hears a sharp knock on her door. She smiles to herself; she should have expected he'd be on military time. Glancing one last time at her reflection, she goes to the door and opens it. James is standing a few feet away, his body language an odd mix of tense and casual. When he sees her, he smiles. If she didn't know better, she'd say he seemed relieved. He's wearing black slacks, a white button-down shirt, a black suit coat, and gloves. She tries not the think about the necessity for the last of those. In her experiences with him, he's never had to hide his arm, and the current need to do so is oddly distressing.<p>

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies, grabbing her keys off the table by the door and stepping out into the hall with him. He moves back obligingly and waits while she locks the door. When she turns around, he offers her his arm, which she takes after a moment of hesitation. She's done this kind of thing hundreds of times with targets, but very rarely because it was something she wanted to do. Most of her previous relationships were… Well, there usually wasn't time for formal dates.

"What is it?" he asks, glancing over at her.

She doesn't know what expression gave her away, so she smiles disarmingly. "I was just thinking that it took Steve more than two years and quite a bit of badgering to get him to take a girl out. And here you are, just a few months away from HYDRA, already on a date," she teases.

He smiles at her. "Steve always requires badgering to do anything, you know, normal. Anything not for God and Country," he adds in a mock-serious voice as he holds the door open for her. As soon as they are outside, he walks on the side of the street and she takes his left arm when he offers it. It might be her imagination, but she senses some hesitation before the gesture. Somewhat surprisingly, the arm doesn't feel cold through his sleeve. It's certainly harder than his flesh one, but no other difference is noticeable. She wraps her fingers around his bicep and walks close by him.

"Steve is always very focused," she agrees. "Not much of a personal life."

He shrugs. "I can imagine it being difficult to have one when you're carrying around the weight of the world on your shoulders."

She looks at him, considering. "You seem to remember him well."

Biting his lip, he doesn't meet her eye. "I don't know. I remember what he's like. I don't usually know why. There aren't specific instances I can think of."

Nodding, she decides to change the subject. "Where are we going?"

His eyes flicker to hers and then ahead. "It's not far," he answers with a slow smile.

"That's not what I asked, James," she admonishes.

His smile broadens, but he shakes his head. Letting it go, she walks beside him and tries not to think about what she's doing. On a date with the Winter Soldier. Well, former Winter Soldier. With Captain America's long-dead best friend. She isn't sure which is stranger. Or how she gets herself into these situations. Before she can ponder it further, he pulls them to a stop outside a restaurant. It's clearly authentically Russian, and she smiles. James speaks to the staff in the language and they are seated quickly.

"Have you been here before?" she asks as she settles in her seat across from him.

He nods. "Of course. I had to know it would be good," he says matter-of-factly.

She notices, amused, that he's speaking in Russian to her now, too. She answers in kind. "Are you fond of Russian food?"

A perplexed look passes briefly over his face. "It was good last time," he says.

They lapse into silence as they make their selections, ordering when the waiter returns. "So, I'm told you were a ladies' man in the forties," she begins, folding her hands innocently on the table in front of her.

He looks slightly startled. "Who told you that?"

"Well, Clint told me. But he heard it from Steve."

"Oh, well, that's just Steve. He was just always impressed I could find a girl for him. Well, I mean, for a double date. They didn't stick around," he corrects himself, looking troubled.

"It's okay, James," she says and is somewhat surprised by the grateful expression on his face. "How have things been going?" she asks gently.

He fidgets with his left glove for a moment before putting his hand under the table. "I'm alright," he answers at last.

She bites her lip. "Steve is taking you to therapy?"

Nodding, he looks away, around the room, at the table, not at her. "There's a guy in DC who specializes in post-traumatic stress. I've been talking to him, but, you know, there are a lot of things I can't tell him."

"When I joined SHIELD, I saw a lot of shrinks. For a long time. I still did for years. It's good to talk to someone," she finds herself telling him. It's not something she's talked about before.

He looks at her then, intently, and she breathes in sharply. "Why are you so nice to me?" he says suddenly.

Taken aback, she sits up straight and frowns a little at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I tried to kill you. Twice." His expression doesn't waver and she finds it difficult to maintain eye contact.

"And then saved my life," she counters.

"So that's it? Just repaying the favor?"

"I…" She pauses, perplexed. "We have a lot in common. I have some idea of what it's like, what you're doing, and I know what would have been helpful for me."

He nods, sitting back, but she doesn't like the expression on his face. "I see." His eyes are focused on the table in front of them and she leans over to see him a little better.

"Steve's my friend, and I owe him," she adds.

"So you're doing this for Steve," he says tonelessly.

Understanding his questioning at last, she reaches out and settles her hand over his right one. "No," she tells him firmly. His gaze slowly lifts to hers, waiting. "I like you," she admits with a shrug.

Tentatively, he takes her hand and runs his thumb along the outside of hers. "I like you, too," he murmurs.

She isn't sure if she's relieved or upset that the waiter brings their food at that point, and James pulls his hand away. They turn to lighter topics, mainly Steve's antics, while they eat. A few questions lead James to talk about his missions, mostly the ones to destroy HYDRA after he escaped, but a few from before. She finds him at least as easy to talk to as Yelena, which is strange. It seems unlikely that they would connect so well.

When they've finished eating, and declined dessert, he pays and she wonders where he's gotten the money, but doesn't ask. On the walk back to her apartment, he offers her his right arm and she slowly moves her thumb across the fabric of his coat, trying to ignore the warmth of his flesh underneath it. He seems to stand straighter when she holds his arm and walks close to him. When they reach her door, she lingers outside uncertainly, releasing her grip perhaps a moment later than appropriate.

"It was fun, James. We should do this again sometime," she says casually.

He smiles almost shyly. "I'd like that."

As he starts to turn away, she stops him with a question. "How did dates usually end in the forties?"

Cocking his head at her, appraising her expression, his smile broadens. "Like this," he says. Before she can comment, he closes the space between them, and leans down to press his lips to hers. Automatically, she wraps her arms around his neck and feels his arms tentatively enclose her waist.

_The cold metal fingers wrap around her neck, tossing her to the mat beneath them._

_Her then-unpracticed signature move fails and he flings her to the floor before she can get a good grip on his shoulders with her thighs._

_His fingers softly pressing a bag of ice to her bruised face when the others were gone._

_His scent on her clothes long after he'd left._

_The way he thrashed when he had a nightmare, and how she could soothe him by singing a half-remembered lullaby._

_The way he screamed when they took his memories away. _

James broke away from her, his eyes wide, an almost-horrified look at his face. She is certain that her expression is the same. "I knew you," he whispers. And she understands at last why she's always felt haunted by him.


End file.
